Logs:Good Time Gather
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 4 August, 2015 |
| Who: Kh'tyr, Telavi |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Strangers are still strange by the end and almost as much -er as they ever were. |
| Where: Igen Hold |
| When: Day 13, Month 6, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| OOC Notes: Back-dated. |
  |
| The sprawl of pillow-seats in the wide open-sided pavilion set up next to the various booths that offer a variety of local and more exotic tasties is busy at this hour, so close to dinner as it is. The pillow-seats are plentiful but largely occupied by the diners who have gotten there first. As a duo rises from their pillows, Kh'tyr's sturdy frame is moving to claim one of the pillows as his own to consume the meal of spiced rice, kebabs and a cooling cucumber salad. Sweat prickles his forehead and touches his light white shirt, the riding trousers not helping him keep free and clear of such biological necessities. While he doesn't look especially dressed up, nor does he look particularly shabby in his attire. "Your friend," he tells the blonde arriving at the same set of pillows as he sinks down on to his, "will have to sit over there," two pillows away at the closest available single pillow seat. It's not apologetic, simply matter-of-fact. The blonde, singularly unimpressed. She's lightly dressed, her hair done up in a high, beaded ponytail that swishes with the turn of her head; expertly nudging a slipper beneath the second pillow to save it, she looks Kh'tyr up and-- doesn't bother with down. "You," Tela tells him, "could have walked a tiny dick further." Only then she looks quickly back, because rather than being on her heels, said friend is... of course. Getting distracted. "Well, that sounds entirely pointless," the man observes even as he bites into the meat on his kebab. "Who wants anything to do with a tiny dick." It's two chews and a swallow later that the rider asks, "How do you know I wasn't about to keel over from the effort? The heat? I could be a leper. There were lepers here, you know," he's quite serious about that, the look he gives her verging on reproachful. "Why don't you sit down and tell me who taught you such dazzling manners," he suggests with a pull of his lips into just the smallest smirk before he's biting into the meat again. Pointless-tiny-keel-leper-what is she doing--- Telavi rolls her eyes, and it isn't even at Kh'tyr; her also-greenriding friend's collected herself a cute curly-haired 'friend,' but the wingman's a yapper. Speaking of; green-blue eyes swing back to Kh'tyr a moment; "Also, you're pregnant. I can tell." She smiles at him, brightly, and-- not only is her friend-five-minutes-ago stalling, there's someone else coming, and so hastily she swooshes towards the further-away seat and claims it for her own. Not that it's far away; once she's settled into the pillows, floaty skirt caught up so it won't drag too much on the dropcloth, she begins to eat. And, all right, peek. "Shells," Kh'tyr affects a dramatic air as his kebab is put down on the plate in his opposite hand and he wipes his fingers on his shirt while affecting a demure pose of moi? "Then I suppose it's only natural that I eat for two," and that's when he leans to place a proprietary hand on the other side of the free pillow beside him. It's not quite a sprawl, but it's a lean that will certainly prevent Telavi's friend from claiming the seat. Maybe she can sit in her curly-haired friend's lap. He didn't. He didn't. Tela's lashes fly up and she's looking and there's just no regard for the poor person between them because all of a sudden she's laughing. "You jerk," she says, leaning over to thumb her nose at him. "Well, you've outed me. What's a man to do?" Kh'tyr fakes a pout before leaning just a little bit more toward the blonde. "Tell you what," he makes the offer as if he were some merchant offering her a bargain he didn't want the rest to overhear (nevermind the poor sap between them), "If you come sit here," he nods to the pillow, "I'll find some way to constrain my obvious dimensions." He shifts his plate to balance it on his knee so that hand can briefly find the stomach that he puffs out just as far as it will go (which is not, arguably, so far, but it's a good token attempt). Said sap is looking increasingly uncomfortable, but he'll just have to suffer; he might as well be invisible for all the attention Telavi's paying attention to him and her friend-the-abandoner, too. "I'm scared," she says with a sniff. "I'm scared of your dimensions." Scared enough that she has to sample her fruit-and-rivergrain-noodle wrap, apparently. "Understandably," Kh'tyr affects extreme empathy for her predicament, "I am magnanimous." He pauses, frowning, "No, that's not right." There's a moment of 'ah-ha!' and he beams a smile at her, "Magnitudinous." He corrects. "You know what they say though, best to face your fears than be gulled-- culled-- cowed by them." He offers the advice cheerfully, as if there were nothing strange about this interaction in the least. On second thought, some things man just wasn't meant to suffer; "You, you shouldn't use such language in public," their shared neighbor complains, awkwardly disengaging from his seat and attempting to push past them into freedom. It's only when what's left of his food endangers her dress that Tela really appears to notice; she pulls it back sharply and watches over the not-exactly-culled man's retreat with a sigh. When she finally looks back at Kh'tyr, "Where were we? Gulling?" Not 'cowed,' and there's the dimple now. "Galling, mayhaps," Kh'tyr suggests, even as one hand moves to steady his plate and he flops full across three pillows now, so his head is on the one nearest Telavi, the one so recently vacated. He moves his plate to his stomach where it might be more stable before plucking up his kebab. "Unless you just find me charming," he sounds as though he's thinking aloud. It could happen. "Galling. I like--" not that. Telavi eyes him, or rather, his hair; is it greasy? Is it near her skirt?! It isn't. For all that his manners could use some polishing and there's still that sweat to consider that's just a hazard of a hydrated body in this heat, Kh'tyr seems well groomed, even if his hair has a naturally chaotic array of locks going this way and that. Really, it looks a smidge like he might've taken a small bolt of lightning to the head (and with his behavior, it might really be so, mightn't it?). "Kebab?" He finishes for her by way of making an offer of his second toward her. Telavi inhales through her nose and sits up just in case, but since those locks also don't seem to have been gelling... she doesn't immediately get up. She peers at the kebab, the savory kebab, and reaches out-- with her little silver fork. "Meat on a stick is possibly one of the greatest inventions since the dawn of mankind," Kh'tyr opines, giving the fork a dubious look. "You're going to insult it by using that silly thing?" "No, I'm going to poke out your eyes and impale them," Telavi says sweetly, prying at the meat until she can get it into her own keeping. "Don't you think it could survive an itty bitty pointy insult like that? Really. It's probably looking long-suffering and thinking up its famous last words, version seven hundred sixty-three." Kh'tyr hisses at her, catlike, lifting his head at her too sweet suggestion. "Feisty," he observes, though it's hard to say if he means it as a compliment or not. As soon, as she secures her meat, he'll secure his plate and sit up, sliding to the vacated pillow so he sits beside her before lifting his on fork to dig into the long ignored rice on his plate. "Bet you gave your Harpers terrible headaches, hourly," he supposed of the blonde who's now being considered through the lens of the adjective, judging by the way he looks at her when his (fork-free, thank you very much) eyes aren't otherwise darting around the space to take in the rest of the happenings around them. "So that's why they were drinking all the time!" Telavi marvels, and nibbles. "What were yours like? Have they lived to a happy age?" Her friend's found seats at last-- curly-hair's persuasive-- but she's starting to look a little glazed; there's also a vendor eating up some of her profits, a white-haired lady who isn't quite slumming it with her wiry bodyguard, a family of almost four, the mother heavily pregnant and a little girl attempting to run about, and more. "Went through too many to keep track," Kh'tyr answers with no sign that he has lost any sleep over it over the turns. No, he looks quite bright eyed and bushy-- haired. "Who have you found to drive to drink in their stead?" "Not enough," Telavi says, sadly. "I'm not fulfilling my quota from the vintners lately, so I worry that they'll kick me off their commission program." She sighs and-- there's the last of the kebab; after daintily dabbing her lips, she peeks at the wrap but doesn't start in. Rather, she watches Kh'tyr for a few bites and then says lightly, "Fork, please." There's even a crook to her finger. Kh'tyr silently lifts his fork, empty, prongs toward the pavilion ceiling, brows lifted in silent question. "Are you hoping I'll need more to drink if I have to pluck up each grain?" Then he wags his fork, "I'll not be used so easily. Everything has a price." He might be speaking of her request, or the larger world, but the phrase is said so dismissively that it must be one of the tenets he lives by. "Yes, yes, that's it exactly," and Telavi gives a perfunctory sigh. "You found me out." No, but, "Really," gets more animation. "You don't have to give a fork, but if you don't, you don't get a reward." 'Reward': such a nicer word than 'price.' "Do you have a return and exchange policy if I don't like it?" Kh'tyr considers, letting the prongs of the fork hover just in front of his chin in an exaggeratedly contemplative pose. "No-- well, maybe," and Tela's dimple has gotten to be visible again. "In a manner of speaking. But..." all this is taking too long; time for a bite of wrap in all its fruity noodly goodness. "With the exchange policy," Kh'tyr qualifies with lifted brows that drive his hard bargain as he offers her his fork. Tela plucks it neatly from his fingers and, sitting back, gives him a pert look as though she might keep it. Or worse! The only thing she winds up combing out, though, is a sample of noodles, before piercing fruit with its tines and adding a sliver of wrap on top. "Was that so hard?" she asks, just before turning the handle towards him to take. Kh'tyr's dark gaze goes to the proffered handle, expression dubious, as if she'd somehow switched the forks on him while he was watching. "And what assurances can you give me that you're not diseased or in the early stages of leprosy?" He asks, to make it that much harder. Never mind that this was a claim he suggested he might make at the start of this encounter. His deadpan gives nothing away. One brow ticks up: really? And then higher: really? "None, clearly," Telavi says, turning away-- though she keeps the loaded fork barely in reach-- and shifting her hips to sit on the far side of her cushion before starting to tidy and stash her own fork. There's no further quip; she doesn't play. "What's life without a few dumb risks," Kh'tyr dismisses her lack of return along with his own (pretended?) hesitations as he reaches in one smooth motion to pull the fork from her fingertips and put the food into his mouth. He chews. He chews. He exaggeratedly chews. (Thankfully, he does it all with his mouth closed.) "You should've gotten the kebab," he informs her, helpfully. Telavi flicks her freed fingers together a few times, then eats as he chews-- and chews-- and chews; she makes progress. She could hurry and make more; she purposely doesn't, looking out from the pavilion towards the booths. Even after he speaks, there's a moment or two before, "Mmm." Kh'tyr watches her in that moment or two. He would probably even watch for three or four. But instead, "So if I wanted to look you up to invite you to join me at another one of these sorts of affairs, strictly as one non-leper to another, to share in the local flavors," he briefly considers his rice before readying a forkful, "Where would I find you and how would I call you so as to be sure to get your attention?" Time enough for doubt, even after he's done speaking, that he'll get any of her attention at all; even when she turns in his direction, it's to look past him in a way that's natural rather than studied, staying there before her focus draws back in. "You couldn't," Telavi admits to Kh'tyr. "Be sure." There's no contrition whatsoever; It's just how the world works, says the expressive lift of one hand, the so-sad lowering of her gaze that sparkles just when she says, "Good day, sir." She'll be gone. "Challenge accepted," Kh'tyr drawls toward her back, making no effort to actually draw her attention back to him. "Enjoy the gather," he well-wishes before turning his attention back to his plate. |
Leave A Comment