Logs:Let It Out
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| RL Date: 22 August, 2014 |
| Who: Lycinea, Telavi |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Lya asks Telavi for her help. Unbelievably, the seamstresses have run out of good will for her. |
| Where: Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| OOC Notes: Back-dated! |
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| Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a day-to-day basis. The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating: swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day.
Telavi was eating. Eating is serious business, especially when one carries on like she does. She lowers her fork and looks at the person who's accosted her-- the person who happens to not be a weyrling, and thus gets a charming and un-teacherly smile that overlooks the girl's attire. "I am. Do you..." what could it be, "have a secret message for me?" "Should I?" Lya asks with canted head. "No. I need to ask a favor. Someone said you might be able to help me." She tugs self-consciously at the end of one of her sleeves. A sleeve that's been added to over time. "I've run out of good will with the seamstresses." That she had any to begin with might be remarkable to someone who'd met her before. "And I have a pair of shirts that don't fit right. Someone said you might be willing to fix them for me. I'm not sure how I could pay you, really. I could probably get you good stuff for lunch when you wanted." Or whatever meal she happens to be working. All this, in a run-on sort of tell-all. One push to get it all out. Telavi's is a blithe-enough shrug for that first bit, though then she lifts and lowers both her shoulders a couple of times in a more muscles-loosening sort of way. She listens; she takes the opportunity to, as long as the girl's broached it, examine that shirt and that fit and what tugs where. She looks at her, and then she asks, "What's your name?" "Lya." Then, "Lycinea, but Lya is better." It's simple if passionate insistence. "I work here." A gesture encompasses the kitchen, as if that will help clarify her ability to come through on her end of the bargain. "Lya." Telavi doesn't look around to see the kitchens in some new light; she just considers that Lya, whom she must have glimpsed before, but not like this. "How well can you sew?" she asks. "If you're given a seam, I mean. Tailoring's for certain the hard part, for those of us not shaped like boys." "I sew things onto socks," Lycinea fidgets, shifting in her seat, "but I'm not sure my stitches are very straight or anything. Just functional. No one ever taught me. I just-- watched and figured it out. That's why I don't do the patches myself." She moves a hand to pick at a faded orange one on her elbow. Telavi doesn't mean to stare; it just happens. In the next breath, she blinks. "Hold on," the older blonde says to Lycinea, underscoring it with her palm flat on the table before she straightens slightly, enough to more thoroughly look out into the kitchen and around and back again. This is Telavi, not asking what Lya had done to earn the seamstresses' ire-- yet. She sits back the rest of the way. Looking directly at Lya, "Something needs to be done." Now, apparently. Or nearly. "My thought is an overvest, that goes over the blouses you have and shouldn't need to be washed as often, for starters. Would you wear such a thing?" The younger blonde shifts under this sudden focus, uneasy. The unease is replaced swiftly by blinking confusion. "I-- sure? I guess?" It doesn't sound like lack of certainty so much as general ignorance. "What do you mean-- 'something needs to be done'?" Lycinea asks after a moment, curious. It doesn't put Telavi off, that ignorance; she does shape herself into a more relaxed pose, her arms curved and hands loose where they rest on the table's edge, her gaze less concentrated-- Lycinea's a person!-- and her posture curved, too. "Actually..." the admission's more soft-spoken, with a subtle thread of humor, "I was agreeing with you, about your shirts. I'd like to help you; I just don't have a lot of time, so the question is how to help the most." Lycinea watches all these shifts of body, the language that it puts off, and finds herself nodding to the last words. "I mean, there's just the two now... But I-- I don't know. Really, the problem is these." Her hands close around the obvious. "They keep getting bigger," as is wont to happen on a sixteen turn old girl. "And nothing is fitting right anymore, and I don't have any more credit with the stores, and I make a pittance, so..." Options are limited. Telavi looks, but it's not as if she's looking; her focus doesn't linger, instead expanding to include the rest of the girl too, particularly those parts of the garment such as collar and shoulders that might reveal related issues of fit-- and then it's back to Lya's expression. "How do you-- no, never mind. It happens," with a flick of one hand to her own physique, "and ugh, how annoying for you. I remember. I wonder... we could take from the sleeves, and piece it, but the weather is getting colder... hmm." She tilts her head. "If you had a larger shirt or vest, Lya, that didn't fit well yet but at least didn't pull too tight? Would you like that to tide you over? Because I can find that, and that buys a little time to figure out the rest." The younger blonde's head is nodding. Nodding and nodding. Even, there's a smile. "That would be much better. As is, some of my blouses are threatening to burst at the buttons." Lya frowns, "And that gets people thinking the wrong sort of thing about a girl." Even a girl in a Weyr, perhaps especially. "They stare dreadfully, don't they?" Telavi commiserates. "I felt for a while like I had to wear a sign, 'Look up here!' Plus the wrinkles... let me think." 'Thinking' apparently involves several more bites of food, all but emptying her plate. "Are your half-days regular or all over the place, Lya? And do you work early or late?" Lycinea nods ruefully for the first. "I don't suppose telling them to stop does any good. No matter how nasty one is about it." She sighs, the woes of womanhood. "All over and both. Sometimes nights. I don't--" The aide bites her lower lip a moment before deciding to simply say, "I'm a pain in the ass," usually, "so I get the worst of the scheduling." This doesn't seem an exaggeration though one might easily suspect. "Sometimes nasty just eggs them on," Telavi says with her own sigh, because who wants to be polite to them anyway? "Anyway, at least you own it. I won't ask if it's worth it, though I won't say I'm not tempted." A smile teases at her mouth, but she doesn't quite give in. Instead, concentrating on the girl who's here now, she leans forward with her plate slid just far enough out of the way. Quietly, intently, "You're almost out of time, aren't you." Lya doesn't volunteer an answer to the unasked question, and opens her mouth to respond. However, as if the cook might have heard Telavi make the supposition, Lycinea's name is called and she slides out of the booth, "I'll see you again," she promises, before adopting a sour expression and rolling up her sleeves to grudgingly return to work. It's easy to guess since she goes back without much fuss that she wasn't actually on break to begin with. Bargaining on borrowed time. |
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