Logs:Tangles
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| RL Date: 7 March, 2008 |
| Who: B'yan, Leova |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Leova cuts some tangles out. B'yan brings more. |
| Where: Lakeside, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 26, Month 7, Turn 15 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Hatha/Mentions |
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| Lakeside, High Reaches Weyr
Farther down from the peace of the lakeside walks one dark-skinned man, his eyes scanning the way behind him as if he was expecting someone to approach him from there. His wear is casual and his riding jacket is open in the front, the glowbasket being held in one hand completing the ensemble. It's probably the light that would attract attention rather than him as he walks towards the water and the rocks littering the lake. And if the light doesn't bring any attention to him? Then his jaunty and out-of-place-and-tune whistling will. It takes at least a few strides, a few more bars of whistling, for the tawny-skinned woman to notice. And even then, it's not that she calls greeting so much as that the cursing stops and the whistling can ring that much better against the rocks. Though she does keep brushing it's more slowly but still with erratic jerks, keeping an eye just past the glowbasket so it won't ruin her night vision entirely. B'yan keeps on walking and whistling, his steps too leisure to suggest that there's an actual destination that he's reaching. When he's close enough, his gaze lands on Leova right as he walks by. There's a rock between them as he claims one for a perch, setting the glowbasket down on it and brandishing out a small cloth to dim some of its light down. He sits beside it, hands free of the glow to fish into inner pockets for something - and whistling all the while. He only stops it abruptly to suddenly state "Got dumped into the lake?" as he continues is search. Leova keeps half an eye on him, but the stiff curve of her spine relaxes a little as he keeps that space and the light dims. "No." Her hair is dry, her clothing too. Even the full and nearly-full moons go easy on the smudges of dirt that hem her pants. Some time later, reluctantly, "Tangles." "Oh." And he finds what he was looking for, pulling out some old-looking folded hide and a writing utensil at the same time. "Seemed like... -almost- seemed like," he corrects himself, looking over at her before offering a three-second smile. "A young woman muttering words and combing through her hair out here, and-" shoulders lift as if to say 'Made the connection' and lets it drop. He bends to scribble something close to the glowbasket quickly then, his body turning to bend at an angle. Leova's mouth curves up at one corner, her reply. While he writes, she gets back to work, moving on to another section of hair that's nearly tangled down to the roots and giving that a go. Only when she's freed a few fingerwidths at the bottom and moved on to a particularly noxious knot does she add, "That happen often?" "Do girls often get dumped, in the sense of the word?" B'yan returns with ease, the scratching sound of the writing utensil heard on hide. When he straightens, lift the hide up and close to the glow, and slips the utensil out of sight with his other hand, "Depends. Have to be a right wench for it to happen, I'd wager," and a smirk appears. Glancing at her then, "It's a Weyr," he tells her. "Anything happens here, I've learned." "Into the lake," Leova returns, that smile lurking in her voice now, though she's looking cross-eyed at the knot she holds up to the moonlight rather than at him. Prying at it with her fingertips, her nails, cut short though they are, "The other? Expect it happens all the time. Anywhere." Another tug. "Could be a rotter, if it's not a right wench. Wager you back it is." Now she looks, just a little spark of a glance. "Same thing," B'yan quips back blithely, all words tonite it seems. Flipping the hide over and slipping into an inner jacket pocket, "I think it's something special, getting dumped into a lake here," he drawls to that, hazel eyes scanning towards the lake in question. "It's not the same -anywhere-." Then turning, "A rotter?" he prompts, light bemusement in his voice. "Is it." Leova looks at him looking. "Tell me. What makes this lake so special." It could be a drawl if she were from somewhere else, but instead it's just an elongated Tillek clip. Another, more sudden tug frees a small matted chunk that she eyes before just flicking it away into the darkness. "And. Think you have a better word? For a man who's a wench. Like that." With an open shrug, "Isn't the lake itself," B'yan explains briskly, keeping his eyes on the lake. "It's more like the atmosphere. Or maybe it's because I've seen it happen more often." There's a joke here, somewhere, but he doesn't elaborate and his gaze shifts to her hair detangling. To Leova's last, there's a hike of a brow and a wry "You think men can be wenches?" he returns, now regarding her. "Or even more intriguing....you think a woman would dump a man in such a lake? Or are you talking about a certain type of woman?" Leova sticks the current strands behind one ear and takes a look around, lets herself be seen looking around. Willow trees. The dark angles of tents. Waterfall. It keeps her attention for a moment longer before she turns back, giving him a quizzical gaze: why's it so funny, anyway? "Certain type of man, maybe. The kind who's just that way." She pauses. "Don't see why she couldn't dunk him, either. 'Specially if she's got surprise on her side. Though mostly it's just an excuse for them to giggle." "But then that begs to wonder what would make a man a rotter," B'yan muses after watching Leova look around. "Certain type you say. You don't like to elaborate, do you?" Which likely amuses him, for it seems to be pointed out more than an accusation on his part. He snorts at her last, however, some arrogance leaking through his tone as he answers, "Most women have no surprise on their side. It would take luck and skill. Knew this one woman that could, though, and she was a guard. If she did it, she wasn't the type to find it funny." "You know him when you see him," Leova says grandly, and it's just late enough, or things lately have been just crazy enough, that she seems to find it funny too. Certainly the moonlight makes her smile that much brighter against warm brown skin, while she lets the assertion work for an answer to his question. While she gives up on yet another knot. Knots, knots, knots. Starting on a new set of ropy strands, "Guard. Where? Sounds like quite the woman." Laughing, "Will I?" B'yan responds at the grand statement loftily. His own smile is easy to come as it is to go, shaking his head before he returns his gaze to the lake. "Here," he answers her question shortly. "Haven't seen her lately, but she was quite a woman. One of the few that has my respect, for a dragonrider." Pause. "If you're talking about rotters, then something tells me that you aren't from around here." A hand lifts, gesturing in a circle to indicate the whole of the Weyr. "Your accent. I know it." For a dragonrider. Those words sit, flat as stones. Leova isn't reading his expression now, checking for something else instead, though she comes away with nothing. "Maybe I'll run into her," she says finally, setting down her brush. "And you might. Shouldn't be too hard." Abruptly she reaches for her belt and the moonlight catches metal. A knife. Metal catching light has B'yan's attention quickly, but the man's too subtle to let it be closely noticed. His posture staying laxed, "Why would you?" he directs at her, flicking a pointed look towards the knife now. "Not unless you're smuggling goods in and out of the Weyr. She's busy like that, perhaps. Nice knife." It's so seamless how he changes subjects. "Who's -your- supplier?" "Smuggling. And you're telling me about it." Leova sounds dubious at best. But it is a good knife, journeyman-stamped and extremely well maintained. "Supplier." Either she doesn't know what he's talking about, or she's acting. Either way, she's using that poor blade to cut at her hair, by touch rather than by sight. "What, it's taboo?" B'yan quips back quickly, noting the knife more than the woman. Her lack of answer gets just a subtle shift of his brows, something unreadable passing over him before he suddenly and deftly snaps his fingers on one hand. "Tillek," he states afterwards. Watching her cut her hair and looking almost fascinated by it, "Holder? Just passing by and looking for a place to cut off your hair?" Leova laughs, very quietly, all to herself. Mostly all to herself. "I was thinking, more. If you respected her," and she puts long emphasis on talk of respect, "Wouldn't want to give it away. Good guess, though." For Tillek, too. She cuts no more than she must feel she has to, pruning away one tangle to free others, the blade flat on her thigh when she's not employing it. "Don't know of a better place. Maybe I should cut it all off." "As in, she being a smuggler herself?" B'yan guesses in bemusement before snorting and shaking his head. "No, she's too good for that. She keeps smuggling from happening, here. The Weyr has a Ground Watch unit that keeps an eye down in the caverns." As for the talk of cutting off hair, the bronzerider takes a long look at her as she cuts, deliberating. If she's looking for words to the contrary, he doesn't seem inclined to give it. "You'll be able to wash your hair faster atleast." "Does she. And I would recognize her, how?" Leova deliberates in her turn, but only upon the moonlight on the knife she's just picked up again, tilting it to flash the light to and fro. A signal, perhaps. If she's aware of being so closely observed, she hides it or doesn't care. "Faster is good. Better summer than winter, too." Hitching up a leg to examine his boot, "Hatha," B'yan finally supplies a name dryly, sending a little lopsided smirk her way. "Tall, brown hair. Can't miss her." Or maybe he's being vague on purpose? The glint from the light gets a brief look before his gaze flicks over the whole area at large. "You didn't answer my question," he sends too easily, a glint entering his eyes once he glances back at her. "Passing through? You seem awefully interested in a guard you don't know." His voice remains easy despite the close regard he's giving her. "Hatha," Leova repeats. Again. Apparently she does that, whether in lieu of being helpful or just because. "Didn't I? Well. Way you described her, sounds like someone to get to know." She gives him a long look over her shoulder, amber eyes mostly pupil in the darkness. There's no one single tell but if he's observant enough, he'll know she's hiding something. Or just uncomfortable. How long has she been sitting there on the rock, anyway? "Might be passing through. Might not. Don't know yet." Again she lifts her knife to her hair. Again, she cuts. "Hatha," B'yan seems to repeat in good measure, his eyes darting in the direction he came casually. Too casually, perhaps. The look he sends Leova now is cleared, especially in the way he shifts his attention onto her in the dim glowlight. In his look alone he shows his suspicion, returning her long look unabashed. As the smile has ebbed during this time, it hitches back in place when when he drawls "Cute. I'm almost impressed. Almost." He lingers just a moment longer before he cuts his eyes beyond her once she answers. "Might be. Knives. Cutting hair. Rotters and secrets. Interest in guards. Next you'll be alluding to whether or not your accent's faked." Swiftly he gets off the rock, his hands straightening up his appearance as he does so. "We all got something to hide," he muses, the words seeming cryptic from his lips as he looks back at her. "Enjoy hacking at yourself," he offers as if in preparation to depart. He goes on for a while there, and so does she, though his is a more verbal sharpness. There's a flick of a glance: had she asked him to be impressed? "And here I was going to ask you to," Leova says, and how's that for trust? "Hack. Good night." "If only I was that kind," is B'yan's flippant over the shoulder answer once his glowbasket is collected and he's heading off down the lake from her. There's that lingering touch of mockery in his bland words, and the woman isn't given a second glance in his departure. Soft laughter follows him, not far, except for the echoes. |
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