Logs:Confusing Girls
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| RL Date: 22 May, 2013 |
| Who: Dal, Elise |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Elise is not very nice. |
| Where: Kitchen, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 6, Month 11, Turn 31 (Interval 10) |
| It's a little after the main dinner rush, though there's still plenty of activity in the kitchens and caverns both: cooks and cleaning staff, and, oh yes, the occasional candidate on this duty or that. Dal's got a sack of flour hoisted over his shoulder as he makes his way through the swinging door from stores, and there's evidently just enough of a hole in it that he's earned a dusting of white down the front of his shirt. "Refill the bin will you," instructs one of the more 'in charge' of the kitchen workers, directing him towards one of the workstations. "And don't make a mess." Currently at that same workstation, diligently peeling potatoes, Elise sulks in her 'working attire', which are a hand-me-down smock of sorts over her blouse and an apron over her skirt; her hair is up in a messy bun for the occasion. She carefully guides the knife along, edging her thumb away as she goes, her face a pout of concentration. Until Dal approaches with his flour and his /presence/. She looks him over, the white stuff all over his shirt, and scoffs. "Clearly she's blind and can't see your /shirt/." "My shirt?" Clearly Dal's also blind - or no, just not very observant, really, because it's only now that Elise has pointed it out that he glances down and sees the white marks. "Ah," he says, then, hoisting the sack onto the benchtop a few handswidths away from Elise, and giving his shirt an ineffectual rub. "It'll come off. It could be worse. One of the children was sick on me yesterday." He's utterly casual about that, already reaching to draw out the big flour bin in preparation for refilling. Elise's face says it all, her nose wrinkling and her upper lip curling in an unpleasant way, but she also /says/ it. "That's absolutely disgusting. Children are... well suffice to say they're good for very few things, and I'm not surprised if vomiting is one of them." When he sets his sack down on the bench she occupies she rolls her eyes and makes an annoyed 'ugh' sound, scooting over to be farther away. Dal's dark gaze lifts from his task to regard Elise evenly, studying her properly for the first time. If his shoulders have tensed (and they have), there's still nothing but neutrality visible in his expression, and audible in his voice. "You, too, were a child once upon a time," he says. "Not so very long ago. They can't help it, sometimes. They're /children/." "That's a poor argument, and a poorer excuse. Just because I once was a child doesn't mean I can't find children loathful, in fact I think having the experience awards me the right to judge them. Though at least I was an educated child." Elise peels her potato calmly, carefully, while she doles out these interesting opinions, which is a bit of a contrast. Twitch. /Twitch/. That's Dal's eye, or, rather, the corner of it, clearly illustrating his disapproval of this conversation even if he's doing his best to keep the rest of his expression neutral. "I hope good manners, and a certain amount of tolerance, were included in that education." He's keeping his gaze lowered to his task, treating it like it is quite simply the most important thing he could be doing. Elise snaps a sudden look over at her current companion on that note, her big eyes wide with surprise and then narrow again in the next instant. Her knife pauses. In a carefully controlled voice she asks, "Are you trying to suggest something?" And then, "Are you going to get to the point or are you just going to continue on being passive aggressive?" Dal hesitates, adjusting the position of his flour sack so that he can stop the flow of white powder into the flour bin; he seems genuinely taken aback by Elise's accusations. "No," he says quietly, and earnestly. "Not at all. I /do/ hope that good manners are taught to all children. I know it's something I've emphasized with /my/ son. I apologise if I've offended you." Lifting her chin, Elise means to look quite haughty when he apologizes, as if this is all very well deserved even if it isn't at all. "Oh please," she replies, turning her attention back to her potato. After a moment though she pauses again and without looking at him asks, "Aren't you a candidate?" It must be the knot, if he's wearing it, or maybe she's seen him around with it before. Or maybe she doesn't know and has him mistaken. /Another/ man might argue the point, but Dal seems to intend to toe the line, and lowers his gaze back to the flour. It's her question, later, that has him glancing in her direction again. He /is/ wearing his knot, though he seems surprised to have been so-picked. "Yes," he confirms. "I'm a Candidate." There's an unspoken question in there, one he's apparently far too polite to actually ask: and? He's too polite. That might just be Dal's downfall. Too innocently, Elise resumes her potato peeling. "I thought so." She gets around a particularly odd curve in the vegetable and then after that, and just when he might think that's all she wanted to know, just to know, she pipes up again. "From what I hear of Candidacy, it certainly doesn't seem like you're going to have a lot of time to emphasize much of anything with him. Your son, I mean." "Candidacy isn't so bad," says Dal, after a moment, having sucked in a breath and then released it again. "It would be simpler if he were here at the Weyr." Which, evidently, he is not. "I hear Weyrlinghood is more difficult, but - " He shrugs. Perhaps he doesn't anticipate Impression. Perhaps he's willing to make that sacrifice. Perhaps all kinds of things. "My parents raised me. I'm quite sure they are capable of raising my son, as well." "Ah." A simple enough sound, but somehow when Elise makes it it carries all sorts of fun hidden meanings and most if not all are likely less than pleasant. She sets her potato down, naked now, and goes for another from a bowl. She seems quite content to just let that hang there as she drags the blade of the knife along this new skin with her lips pursed. "And you?" Dal's prompt comes after some minutes of silence. /Surely/ he's managed to finish filling up that bin by now? /Surely/. "Did your parents raise you to peel potatoes in a Weyr kitchen?" The words alone could be - and are - dismissive and probably pointed, but he doesn't actually seem to mean them that way... Dal is clearly not very good at expressing himself. Well aren't they quite the pair. He's not good at expressing himself, she's /too/ good. Elise lifts her perfectly manicured eyebrows when he asks that first question, stops peeling again when the second comes. There's a cold front coming in in her expression. When she answers her voice is /scary/ calm. "My parents raised me to be the Lady of a Hold, to take charge and to have command over small people. Like you. And one day I will." She tosses him a little smile, too simpering and prim to be anything near nice, and resumes her work. And as polite as Dal is? As respectful? He can't seem to /help/ the flash of dubiousness that crosses his expression. It's probably not a matter of being unable to picture Elise in such a situation... and rather more a product of her present position. "If you say so, ma'am," he says, quietly, turning his gaze back onto his work. He might be making fun of her, though... probably not. "I'm sure your Lord Husband to be will appreciate your willingness to pitch in." Another look over, this one slightly disbelieving and then more and more as he goes on. A faint flush rises to color her pale cheeks and she takes a deep breath in. This time her voice is lower, angry. "You mock me, /sir/, and you have no right." She fumes quietly after that, her lips searching for words that come too quickly in her brain to pick them apart to choose just a few, and what she ends up with is a frustrated, high pitched growl. "Oh what do you know!" And with that she grabs her knife, her bowl, and her potato and storms off in search of another of the tables. Elise's anger seems to confuse Dal, and sends a flush to his cheeks. "I'm - " he begins, but what's the point in finishing that thought, when she's already rushing off? He bites at his lip, following her a distance with his gaze before, finally, he sighs - and gets back to work. /Girls/. So confusing. |
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