Logs:People Can Be Unsearched
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| RL Date: 26 September, 2008 |
| Who: C'mryn, F'rint, N'thei, Sunniva |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
| Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr(#350RJs) Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings. Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed. Evening and dinner is on the wrap up. A few people here and there enjoying a late dinner, desserts, or drinks. But the Living Cavern is still alive with quite a few people lingering about. Luttrell is one of those hanging around enjoying a late meal. Sitting at a table about the middle of the room, a few people at the other end talking in quiet conversation, but he sits alone. His bowl is half empty of stew, and bread half eaten as he drinks from a glass of juice.(Repose for N'thei) A short walk from the serving tables to the table has C'mryn sliding into one of the empty seats near Luttrell. There's a brief grin for the candidate, and a long swallow of wine, before Cam asks, "Mind if I join?" He's already made himself at home, though. "--and what happens to her?" That's N'thei speaking, coming in from the cold while he pulls his scarf from around his neck, that chill of autumn twilight chasing him indoors. Next to him, similarly bundled, F'rint shrugs and looks like he's tired of this argument already. "Exactly. And I don't know either. So." They make toward the dinner table, toward the remnants of the evening meal, stopping along the way so N'thei can unburden himself of his coat-and-such a few chairs down from Luttrell-- now Luttrell and C'mryn. The nod to the Glacier rider is, as yet, distracted; so's the look that glances across the candidate. With her chores finished and a bath snuck in before others were of a mind to get their own, Sunni makes her way into the living caverns in search of something /warm/. She's at least warm enough, bundled up as she is in a fur-lined cloak, and she makes her way to the serving tables -- head down, seemingly oblivious to whatever's going on around her -- with an uncertain look. This? No. That? Ugh, nose-wrinkle. Luttrell glances over at C'mryn an awkward smile of his own. "Not at all." A nod for N'thei and this candidate is going back to his stew. "It's good stew tonight." He comments absently while soaking a piece of bread in the stew juices. He glances up as Sunniva comes in, and gives her a wave, though by his frown, he doubts that it was noticed. Back to his stew he goes. "It's always good," says C'mryn for the stew. But he's busy working on his wine, first. N'thei gets an acknowledging nod of his head, but Cam's not really worried about the Weyrleader at the moment. Nope. Food first, Persons Of Authority later. "So what'd you do?" he asks Luttrell, finally reaching for his own roll. The words from N'thei that greet the realization that he's missed any dinner worth having, down to stew and leftovers, are not really fit for public consumption. But he finishes his earlier line of thought; "Go find her. Tell her--" He frowns, lost in a thoughtful moment while he scoops stew into a bowl. "Tell her I'll meet with her in the morning." There's the nod of acceptance from F'rint to his Wingleader, a remark about "how well that'll go over," then the older man jogs off, leaves N'thei to side-step Sunniva, set to take a seat near C'mryn and Luttrell when he stops suddenly. To the girl, "Why do you look familiar." The stew? That earns a sour look from the candidate, who settles on reaching for a plate and a roll after she determines it to be fresh enough. Sunniva works her lower lip thoughtfully in her teeth as she peruses what remains and is summarily startled when an unfamiliar voice comes rather uncomfortably close for her tastes. "Oh?" She half-turns, a dutifully polite smile emerging. Her forehead creases subtly with mild concern -- and a touch of thoughtfulness while she tries to place a name or face -- as she adds in a cultured voice, "I do not rightly know, sir. I am Sunniva," a hand is offered, the smile edging just a little wider, "of Fort Weyr." "What do you mean? Around here? Whatever Milani has posted for chores. I was a trader before I was a candidate. if that is what your asking." Luttrell replies having looked up from his bowl, his expression slightly confused. A glance goes to the serving tables and the two over there talking but he quickly returns his attention to C'mryn, waiting for that response. Cam snorts around a mouthful of bread-and-stew, but he swallows before answering, "No! I meant, what'd you do that no one would sit with you?" Nevermind he's there now, and N'thei's on his way, and likely Sunniva as well. "But, ah... congratulations?" he adds, as if only now noticing that candidate knot. "Of Fort Weyr." N'thei studies Sunniva a moment longer, the edge of his mouth starting to find a smile that he quickly wipes away with a pass of his palm over his lips; it does nothing to dim the flash of merriment that brightness his eyes. "Sunniva. I knew your sister." Innocuous words, but a little extra slickness around the term weights them, not to mention the up-and-down look that 'knowing' her sister leaves Sunniva to suffer. No explanation, he's already moving on to drop heavily into the chair that his jacket staked out for him. "Congratulations for what," is his demanding way of introducing himself to C'mryn's and Luttrell's conversation in progress. There's a slight sharpening of her gaze as she studies him, one eyebrow lifting nigh imperceptibly before the more familiar veneer of polite emptiness settles in. "Oh. Well, that is no surprise, sir; she knows anybody that ought to be known," is merely matter-of-fact, her smile settling into neutrality. She inclines her head and turns away when N'thei seems to move on, herself seeking something else and finding nothing at all. Disappointing. So, with her roll, she half-turns and espies Luttrell, the only familiar face among those at the table -- and that's where she goes, querying, "Might I join you?" Luttrell gives a wordless 'oh' and a shrug. "Haven't a clue. I spent the day in the infirmary helping stock shelves and rolling bandages. It's not like I was mucking stables or anything." He gives a shrug and takes a bite, swallows, and grins. "Thanks, I think." Startled by the demand of the Weyrleader, Luttrell stutters. "I uh, I was, uh, searched?" Cough. "Sir?" Sunniva to save the day! Luttrell glances up at his fellow candidate and albeit awkwardly, he smiles gratefully, and gestures to an empty seat. "Please." "That must be it," decides C'mryn with a quick nod of his head. "Got that tell-tale 'infirmary' smell on you." He even goes so far as to lean over and take an experimental wiff. "Yup. Numbweed and liniment." Once he's back in his seat completely, he takes another chunk out of his roll and nods at N'thei again. "Wingleader." And then Sunniva, who gets a much more polite look-over from Cam. "Help yourself," and he waves a hand towards an empty chair. The laugh that answers ought-to-be-known is what accompanies N'thei down to his seat, but he presses the issue no further, his own personal humor going without clarification. So-- "Are you asking me, or telling me?" His eyes flick to Luttrell's knot long enough to be sure that he is, indeed, a candidate before he starts shoving food toward his mouth. Despite the mixed company, he eats hastily and none too prettily, saying around a mouthful, "Learned to suffer the scared 'sirs' of candidates, C'mryn, but don't throw in 'Wingleader' and make it worse, mate." "Thank you," is graciously intoned and she claims one of the empty chairs near Luttrell. Skirts smoothed down, Sunniva delicately starts to pick apart her chosen meal -- in as much as an unbuttered roll of relative freshness can be construed as such -- and eat, while she lapses into a brief silence to just listen to the conversation and consider the speakers in turn. Well, for the most part; she doesn't watch N'thei eat, if only to spare her own stomach. Luttrell gives an experimental sniff of his shirt. A shrug would indicate that he didn't smell the numbweed and liniment that he was so accused of smelling of. A frown toward N'thei, and Luttrell isn't sure how to respond. Is it save to venture, "Well you asked what the congratulations was for." we will find out soon enough. He glances at Sunniva and leans toward her to suggest, "I think they might have some fruit in the kitchen still, if your looking for more then just bread. That is if someone hasn't raided it, or put it away for tomorrow." "Ah, N'thei then," says C'mryn and, though he says it easily enough, it's clear he's not entirely comfortable to be on a first name basis with the Weyrleader. Or maybe it's just saying it with others around? Who knows. C'mryn shrugs and dips the rest of his bread into his stew, soaking up the broth. "Don't eat meat?" he asks of Sunniva, giving the girl a wary look. "Know what I asked." It's seldom safe to venture anything where N'thei is concerned, less so when it's done with even a hint of reticence; to answer the question. "And the answer is 'I got searched,' not 'I, uh, was searched?'" Note the difference, the crisper intonation on /his/ reply versus his impression of Luttrell's. With a spoonful poised, he adds to C'mryn, "Fort's Weyrwoman's-- big sister? Little sister? Guessing big sister, since Berit's barely out of infancy." There's a bit of a blink at Luttrell and she simply shakes her head, murmuring, "No, this is sufficient, thank you. I have not had terribly much of an appetite since coming here." Sunni gives C'mryn a sidelong look with a slight ghost of a smile, then shakes her head. "Sometimes, if it is prepared properly." But, the lack of appetite ought to answer why she hasn't picked anything else up. Which brings her sage-hued gaze to N'thei, correcting with a mild, "Older, but only by a few turns, sir." There's a beat, then, "And if Berit is scarcely out of infancy, I am afraid to ask what that would make Ella, the youngest." Luttrell dives head first into treacherous waters indeed. "Actually, It would be, "I was searched, not I got searched. Seeing how nothing has been obtained except plenty of chores." He dares to look toward N'thei, his expression as blank as it's ever been since he arrived. "You simply caught me by surprise. Sir." The 'sir' is prounced in a respectful tone, followed by a quick nod. A glance to Sunniva and Luttrell goes back to his stew, finishing his broth soaked bread. "That one?" asks Cam, but it's more statement than question. An amused smile graces his face, and he shakes his head. "Funny. She Stood at the last Hatching Telgar had-" and then a pause, and another funny look, this time without the smile. "Last one I was there for, I should say. And now, Weyrwoman." A shrug and a shake of his head. Dragons. "Sister?" as if that word had just occurred to him, and he peers at Sunniva with a mixture of surprise and humor. As for the lesson in grammar? The Harper-bred Cam wisely keeps his mouth shut and his nose out. N'thei sounds, a little bit, like he's entertained with the exchange with Luttrell. It's hard to say, since his mouth is partially full and he doesn't exactly have the cheerfulest of intonations at the best of times, but there's a little less gravel-and-hate in his tone right off the top. "Could get unsearched, lad." His smile, the flash of his teeth, comes right about the same time that Luttrell tacks on that 'sir,' then he scrapes at the bottom of his bowl and issues something like a grunt toward C'mryn's musing over the fate of former fellow candidates. "Don't let's talk about Ella, the youngest, but how many of you are there?" Green eyes slide from Luttrell to N'thei and finally settle on C'mryn with a slight lifting of her brows that's as curious as it is considering. "Yes, sister. Though we are so different in temperament that it might be difficult to believe," Sunni laughs, her tone mild. To N'thei, "There are six of us in total, sir. Well, as the girls go, at any rate," Sunniva recounts respectfully, her roll being held in both hands and summarily lowered to her lap. Out of sight and all that. "Right." Luttrell says mostly to himself. Now keeping to the safety of occupying himself in the quiet consumption of whats left of his stew. Not wanting to become unsearched of course. One chance a night is enough for him. A glance around the table, and his expression would indicate he's a bit lost at the conversation of Sunniva's family, being that he barely knows her himself. It's one conversation he going to stay out of. Cam nearly chokes on his stew. "Six?" He eyes Sunniva warily again, and he shakes his head. "Rabbits," is muttered under his breath. Luttrell is glanced at again, and he gives the candidate what he hopes is an encouraging smile. Take heart! "Whatta bout you? Six brothers at home?" "Six." N'thei says it without choking on his stew, with a look to C'mryn for the man's apparent inability to swallow and speak at the same time. Right when he might have more to say, right when he half-turns as if to resume his very light threatening of Luttrell, F'rint appears at the periphery of the cavern again, so N'thei stands with his empty bowl and just walks away, leaves his coat and such behind to meet the older man at the tunnel to the inner Weyr. Thick-as-thieves. "Well, I hardly have a say in my mother's and father's former bedroom habits," Sunniva remarks rather blandly for C'mryn's benefit, while a smear of a blush crosses her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. "We also have two half-brothers, one of whom runs the Hold now." N'thei's abrupt departure is duly noted, a pleasant, "Do take care, sir," being called after. Then? There's naught but a sidelong look to Luttrell, to see what his response will be. Luttrell scoops up the last of his stew, and sets the bowl off to the side in exchange for his glass. C'mryn is watched at the man nearly chokes, and Luttrell smirks. "Me? No, just one sister, and one brother." With mild surprise, he watches N'thei just up and leave, and glances to the others with a questioning stare. "Does he always do that?" |
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