Logs:Get Out of my Dreams
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 9 July, 2015 |
| Who: Dimatrin, I'dro |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: I'dro and Dimatrin are totally responsible adults, the trouble's all imaginary. |
| Where: Living Cavern, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 3, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
Fort's enormous Living Cavern is a vast, echoing space, with deep set
windows carved into the outer wall to let in light and fresh air. Large
enough to house the entire human population of the Weyr with plenty of
room to spare, the most common use of the living cavern is as a communal
eating and gathering space. Long tables with benches usually line the main
part of the cavern with a table set aside for the Weyrleaders on a raised
dais, as well as other smaller tables set along the walls for quieter
dining. Tapestries depicting historic moments in the Weyr's history and
scenery from the coverage area decorate the walls and lend the space a
warmer feel than bare stone.
To the east, a large doorway leads out to the Bowl, with a sturdy metal
door that can be closed during inclement weather or Threadfall. The
Nighthearth is tucked away in a little alcove near the door. The large
main hearth is used for cooking and for heat, though chairs are often
pulled up nearby for the Weyr's elderly to enjoy the heat. A swinging door
not far from the hearth leads into the Kitchen that shares the wall behind
the hearth. To the west, a passage opens up into the Weyr's Inner Caverns. Dimatrin is sitting backwards on one of the benches with his elbows slung back on the table, his long legs spread wide and knees tilted at odd angles as he slouches. He's been exchanging sallies with one of the kitchen staff, who's been cleaning up a mess that some weyr children were ultimately responsible for, but now as the last of the mess is cleared away and his kibbitzing has been abandoned, forcibly. He puffs out his cheeks and blows a long breath past his lips, the slight lilt of a whistle screeking out on the gust of the exhalation. Most people would walk into the living cavern the normal way. Which is to say--forwards? I'dro, apparently not content with his usual levels of peculiar, backs in from the bowl while making gestures outside that look suspiciously like what would go with a "stay put" or "wait here". He only turns once he's a fair distance in and has managed to back into a table. Not so much a turn as a whirl, startled, then straightening and running a hand down his front like there are ruffled feathers that must be settled. However much of a whistle that wasn't, maybe it just came at the wrong time. It's then that he actually notices Dimatrin on the bench, there. "You. You're real." "Mmhmm," Dimatrin hums. He tilts his head, looking up at I'dro with eyebrows swept high toward the dark rumple of fluff across his forehead. He says: "Do I want to ask if I was a dream or a nightmare?" All smiles, all teeth. "No." Strange bird, I'dro. He sweeps over to deposit himself on the same bench Dimatrin's on, although, it must be said, a polite distance down. "I'm trying to see if she can tolerate sitting out there to wait for me instead of waiting back at the barracks, which she's not done very well with," conversationally. "I thought you were probably real, because you have a very real sort of face, but you never know, do you? Or, I don't. I tend to have very vivid dreams, but not about strangers. Usually." He does keep glancing back towards the bowl entrance. "I heard once that even when you dream about strangers, it's actually just your brain recycling people from bit parts of your memory that you don't consciously remember," Dimatrin says conversationally. "Your brain isn't actually clever enough to make up new people out of nothing. Or. Well. I don't mean your brain in particular. I mean people's brains." He follows I'dro's glance back toward the entrance and obscures the curve of his mouth behind his hand, musing with eyebrow and eye as he hides his lips. "Are you expecting her to come charging in at any moment?" A distracted sort of nod, then a head-shake, then a lift of shoulders. "Maybe. I don't know. If someone flies too close overhead, maybe. I think she's settled for the moment. She's talking with one of the grown greens. That's nice, isn't it? I think it's nice." I'dro doesn't actually seem to expect Dimatrin to have an opinion, if the very short allowance for any kind of answer is some indication. That's when he turns back. "It's a bit creepy. So if I dream of strangers, they're all patchwork men, bits and pieces of... other things. Well, not that there's anything wrong with patchwork, I'm just not sure there ought to be patchwork people, even imaginary ones. Is that narrow-minded? What are you up to?" A quick veer off into left field, with nary a breath between one question and the next. Dimatrin seems to tack into this new wind with only a brief stutter of a blink over the previous stream of consciousness. "Not like you can control what your waking imagintion does, let alone your sleeping one," he says. Huffing a breath, he drops a shoulder in a shrug. "Me, I'm just hanging about," he says. "I've been cut loose for the evening, and I've no giant baby to chase after, so that means--" He opens both hands wide. "If I felt very ambitious, I might get into some kind of trouble." Slouching against the table behind him, he doesn't look like he feels terribly ambitious. "I don't think I'd say she's giant. I mean, maybe for a human baby, but she's also very worryingly green, in that case." Is this apropos of anything? Maybe not. I'dro is not so good at slouching, at least not when he's properly awake, but does try leaning an elbow on the table, with some success. "But she is a great deal of Responsibility." How do you pronounce a capital letter out loud? Very carefully. Very pointedly. It's hard to deliver a liquid consonant like it's intended to stab and draw blood. "Which significantly infringes upon my availability for any of the good kinds of trouble. You shouldn't take it for granted." "I'm open to suggestions," Dimatrin says, thumbs set against each other and fingers spread wide. "I mean, no guarantees. I have responsibilities, too, you know." He doesn't bother to cite them more specifically. This is because they involve folders, paperwork, and general gopherism. "Do you?" It's not actually an invitation to elaborate. Rhetorical. I'dro might not be big on the nitty-gritty of rhetoric, but the questions, the questions he likes. As long as they're his. Dimatrin's proposition, he seems to be taking entirely seriously. "I don't know what you like, I suppose. I know that I've started having elaborate fantasies about just being allowed to go have a couple proper cocktails. That's probably not normal. That's what this will do to you. Saps creativity. Maybe a couple cocktails and flirt with a stranger, both things I would under no circumstances do prior to the approved point in weyrlinghood, obviously." Dimatrin laughs and scruffs a hand through his hair as he eases, all be it lazily, back to his feet and stretches out his arms, loosening them with a roll of his shoulders. "Under no circumstances," he says. "Of course. I bet I could find a couple cocktails. Maybe even a drinking partner who won't throw one in my face, you never know." "I have an extremely hard time imagining you making the sort of comment that gets a drink thrown at you, somehow." I'dro braces one hand flat on the table and uses it to sort of pry himself back off of the bench and up to standing, since the other man's doing the same. "You should go have a nice time, tell me all about it later. Let me live vicariously." Poor, pitiful creature that he is--though he hardly seems to be exuding misery as he says it. "And I'll go stop torturing my poor dragon and be Responsible for a few months longer." Dimatrin grins a crooked grin that makes an illustrative exhibit of his chipped tooth. He says, "You'd be surprised, I think," but doesn't expand. Instead, he shrugs his hands into his pockets, widens his eyes, and says, "I'll have to report back. Good luck with that whole responsibility thing." He apparently lacks I'dro's talent for capital letters. "Good luck," the response so cheery that it borders on inappropriately smug, "on finding some trouble." Then I'dro's back off to the bowl and his not-actually-freakishly almost-five-foot-long green infant charge. |
Leave A Comment