Logs:Invisible Friend
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| RL Date: 16 July, 2014 |
| Who: Lycinea, N'rov |
| Type: Log |
| What: N'rov has a bite with his invisible friend, who is probably much nicer than Lycinea. |
| Where: Kitchens, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 9, Month 4, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ali/Mentions, Aishani/Mentions, Iolene/Mentions, K'del/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Super way, way back-dated because I totally forgot about this folder of scenes to post. |
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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.
In contrast, N'rov might look at first like he's here for a good reason. In the dead time after normal people have lunch but before prep for the dinner rush really begins, he's a tall tanned rider who'd wandered in a few minutes ago and now is chatting up the cooks with the comfortable air of someone quite at home but the welcome of someone who isn't around all the time. Yes, he's readily talked into tasting, which leads to just-as-ready complimenting; why yes, he'd be happy to take on a shallow bowl of what they do have, and thank them for it too. Still, sometimes a man needs to do the actual eating in peace, and that's why he heads unhurriedly for the back booth that's supposed to be empty. Lya can count on two hands the number of men that get that kind of reception from the cooks. It's quite likely that she's placing bets with herself about which one it is when N'rov moves into view. The girl's nose wrinkles, lips half-puckered like she just tasted something gross. "Ugh, not you." But a moment later she's sighing and beckoning. "Hurry up and sit down before they see you talking to me. Are you trying to blow my cover?" All of this in the span of the first breaths before he'd really have had a chance to sit anyway. She is looking at him in a way that suggests she really is weighing whether or not his actions are that of a deliberate traitor to all those seeking to shirk their daily duties. N'rov looks, for the moment, no less dubious; in the next, "With such a warm reception, how could I possibly refuse." He tips an invisible hat and helps himself to the seat she'd pointed out, but rather than starting in right away, he looks her and her polka dots over and eyes her expression, too. "Scrambled dragon eggs, you idiot." She's pleasant, right? "If I'm not supposed to be here then you shouldn't be tipping your invisible hat." Lycinea sighs and bends her head back over the knife and the scratch marks she's working at. "Although, I suppose in that you're tipping an invisible hat, there's at least some chance they'll suppose you're entirely nutters and not think anything of you talking to an invisible friend." "Really?" Maybe N'rov's never ever heard that before. When she moves on to his invisible friend, though, "That's no way to talk about him," augmented by a regretful shake of his head. "Now, why are you mutilating the table? Somebody really likes someone else... or doesn't anymore? Or an urge to add splinters to your diet?" Blue-green eyes pull up from the tabletop to stare at N'rov with an expression that can only reinforce her assessment of 'idiot.' "Tell me something, do they ever give out any brains with this those big bronze dragons? And if not, has anyone ever stopped to consider that those brainless boobs are running these places?" Her eyebrows are raised in concern, her lips still partly pursed. Then she lets her eyes drop to the tabletop and back to the foreigner with a shrug. "Maybe I just like mutilating poor defenseless tables in my spare time. It's no worse than your pastimes." Like she knows. "Never. They tried, once, but our big boys started shrinking. Oh, and," what's the other thing? "Turning brown." N'rov has a pleasant smile and, for the moment, no particular worry for the table. "I wouldn't want the weyrwomen to catch you calling them brainless, though. If I were you." Which he's not. Which they're both probably grateful he's not. "Gross." Lycinea's nose wrinkles again and she makes a face to illustrate her distaste. "Why? Shouldn't the weyrwomen know best of all what with the way metallics like to bang metallics? You and Aishani, K'del and Ali, and before that Iolene, and before that... well, who knows. I wasn't old enough to keep track then." Lya admits, but with all the attitude of one who won't let her age stop her from having Opinions. "You're hung up on that sort of thing, aren't you," N'rov observes. "Hung up on what?" Lya wants to know. "Weyrwomen. And bronzes. What did we ever do--" N'rov pauses for effect, "or not do to you?" It's after that that he seems to remember he has food, which he proceeds to eat. "Oh, I'm not hung up on that kind of thing," She shifts a little so she can leeean toward the kitchen and nod her head in that direction, "They are."" That's delivered conspiratorially. "You don't work three turns in the kitchen and not get to know what sets their bloomers ablaze. Which is something I could really do without." Lycinea points out, more distaste showing in the pinches of her brow. "Careful," N'rov notes, all mock-solicitous. "They might see you." Slacking. "If it helps, I don't personally know anyone intent on making you into a fire hazard, so you might well be quite safe." "'I don't wear bloomers." If she weren't sixteen, if she didn't deliver the words so flippantly, this might seem a sort of come on. "I'm not in any danger. It's the cooks you have to worry about. With the way you flounce in here with your pretty face and your fancy hair and your compliments. Do you have any idea how long I'm going to have to hear about handsome N'rov? Maybe I'll just kill myself now to spare me the taste of vomit in my mouth." Lycinea eyes the butter knife as if that might do the trick. "Really, it's downright inconsiderate to those of us who have no choice but to listen. You get to flounce right out again." Her free hand makes a bouncy gesture in the air that might be meant to be an imitation of N'rov flouncing, were he a cracked-skinned, calloused hard-working hand and not a pretty bronzerider from Fort. It doesn't seem to put N'rov off his feed; he starts out observing the girl as one might a tinker's play, but somewhere in the middle there's a dry, "Don't let me stop you." With that, without fanfare, he removes himself and rejoins the cooks without looking back. No doubt he's complimenting them again, or asking them about their families, or similar unsavory activities. Or... perhaps tattling; shortly before he departs the kitchens, there's a knowing glance slid towards that far-back booth, about which a shirking girl might wonder if she saw it at all. The booth, and the near-emptied bowl which of course he'd left behind. "Fewmets." Lya swears once he's doing the flouncing. She dares a peek around the edge of the nook and catches him doing all that obnoxiously nice behavior. There's a roll of her eyes, and then she's slipping from the booth to try to scamper off just as his backside is distracting the cooks. Only, "Lycinea! And just where do you think you're going?" With a defeated duckface, she's back to work. Thanks a lot, N'rov! |
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