Logs:Having and Deserving
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| RL Date: 9 May, 2009 |
| Who: N'thei, Rimara, Whitchek |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 11, Month 9, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| 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. "Well, no, I guess you can't dismiss family obligations," Rimara admits, nodding. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound like I'm challenging your attitude. I mean, you're entitled to feel as you do, of course." She pauses, considering her next statement for a long time before saying, "But you could Impress, and if you /do/, you'll be a dragonrider whether you want to be or not." Another pause. "It might not be as bad as you think." The breakfast crowd is starting to dissipate at this hour, although there are a few late-risers. Whitchek, spending the morning on dish-duty, is scraping off dirty plates near the kitchen entrance, developing quite a respectable stack of things ready to be carried off into the kitchen. Rimara is standing nearby. "It's not about how bad it would be," he clarifies to her. "It's about... oh, why am I bothering trying to explain it? It ought to be enough to say that I don't want it." N'thei eats. Just like all the normal people. There's something rumpled and worn-in about him, more like he's /still/ up rather than /just/ up, but he seems pretty happy with the toast-and-bacon sandwich he's procured from the kitchen, crunching through it while he descends the steps with an eye toward the klah pots. He pauses mid-chew, following Whitchek's dish-scraping with a dubious look: that comes anywhere near him, there'll be hell to pay. So he waits till it's safe to pass. "Well, yes, that's your right, and I'm not disputing that. I was merely intrigued. Most folks would jump at the chance to be a rider," Rimara says, stooping to pick up a crust of bread that fell from someone's plate. She drops it into whatever it is Whitcheck's scraping plates over. "I'm not arguing with you, I'm just curious, is all. Don't be upset." She doesn't lean back against the wall again, instead, she steps away from the Candidate, as if she means to leave him. "At any rate, I hope it works out for you, either way." Perhaps Rimara's strategic withdrawal has less to do with the conversation being over as it does with the big man who just appeared from the kitchen. "Morning, N'thei," she offers politely, then prepares to get the heck out of Dodge. Whitchek gives Rimara a cautious look and manages to say, "Thanks. I'm not upset. Just sick of folks assuming they know what I want. S'all." But the greeting draws his attention in N'thei's direction and, eternally lacking the ability to leave well enough alone, he calls, "Would you happen to have any idea why strange people have been coming up to me asking about my teeth?" Added as though it should have been an afterthought, but not quite: "Sir?" "No, they don't." The words exit N'thei like a knee-jerk, with a crumb at the corner of his mouth and everything. Rimara is given a look she at least ought to be familiar with by now: just stop talking, girl. Fortunately, the question of teeth puts him back to taking another bite, to giving Whitchek a brow-lifted look. "Probably because yours are fake," he answers bluntly, passes by the scraping toward those klah pots. "No one can know what you want but you," Rimara offers as a parting remark. That "look" from N'thei has her decidedly /not/ wanting to stick around---even though Whitcheck's remarks to N'thei are pretty intriguing. Instead of lingering close, however, the girl moves away to the nearby drinks table, securing for herself another glass of redfruit juice. But N'thei's headed that way himself, so Rimara's forced to find another avenue of escape. Of course, if she was smart, she'd just pour him a mug of klah so he could be on his way, but she doesn't stop to think of that. She just heads away from the former Weyrleader without a backwards glance. There's a moment of something that's almost sputtering. "They are not," Whitchek insists, too distracted by that to latch onto Rimara's parting words. "Anyway, not any more than is perfectly normal. And now some rider I've never met before walks up to me out of the blue, asks if I'm Whitchek and then what's wrong with my teeth. That's not natural. It's not ordinary behavior." Trying to hand N'thei a cup of something scalding would not be smart. It's probably better the thought never occurred to Rimara, really. He waits, finishing his toast-and-bacon, patience written pointedly into his stance until she's out of the way, when he goes on to pour his own drink. "Are fake," he answers back, shrugging in a helpless way, totally out of his control. "What did you tell them?" That's honest curiosity, by the way, while he turns back to eye the kid. "When they asked." Rimara takes the opportunity to make good her escape, heading toward the back of the cavern with her glass of juice. A quick detour to the pastry table, where she grabs something fruity and sweet, then run away! She chooses a table toward the back, in the shadows. Not too far from the main exit into the bowl. Back to the wall, she sits, watching. Sadly, she's too far way to hear the exchange between N'thei and Whitcheck, but makes a mental note to ask the Candidate about it later. Maybe. Well, maybe not. It sounded like a touchy subject. Whitchek smiles again, broadly, more broadly than N'thei would ever possibly warrant, but for some reason he's in a terribly good humor about this. "Told him I hadn't seen 'em since last time I saw you, if he came across 'em to let me know. Took me awhile to get it back in after that, though. Not messing with it no more." He sets the knife he's been using for scraping down, and the last of the plates for the first batch, and leans on the edge of the table. "The hell happened to your teeth anyway?" N'thei, absently, wiggles one of his own front chompers to ensure that they're still very firmly in place. And, yes, they are. At least the pastry isn't too messy, and Rimara can eat it without ruining her good clothes. She continues to relax in those shadows, just one more face amidst many. After finishing the sweet, she pulls a deck of cards from her pocket, and begins shuffling them. An odd pattern of cards is laid out, face up, and she starts playing solitaire. Eyes narrowed, Whitchek peers at N'thei as though he'd just asked why Belior was made of fish filets. "What do you think happened? I got older brothers," like this is just the normal sort of thing in families. The more brothers you have, the fewer sound, natural teeth. Or something. He pauses for a moment, says with extreme care: "A'son said I oughta steer clear of you. Said you'd had a rough time of things lately." Older brothers-- "Who what? Had aspirations toward dentistry and fell short?" N'thei can't process the idea that someone actually got his teeth knocked out. For all the times he's likely been responsible for it. From behind the rim of his mug, it's hard to tell if that's a smile or a frown he's wearing to say, "A'son said you ought to steer clear and you thought it would be smart to mention that. What's steer clear mean to you, exactly." There's a frown on concentration on Rimara's face as she plays the game. And loses. That's obvious by the way she gathers the cards and stuffs them back in her pocket. Picking up her juice, she takes a long drink, just watching the interaction between N'thei and Whitcheck. No, she can't hear them, but she can watch expressions, body language, all that. Folding her arms across her abdomen, she leans back in the chair, idle. Just taking it all in. "I don't follow directions well," says Whitchek, which may be the understatement of the century. "Also said as I was an idiot--well, not in so many words. But that part was true. Is, probably. But I'd just gotten here and there's a certain adjustment." Softer, more serious, a question: "Girl you brought in, looking like she'd been beat on. You do that?" Seriously. N'thei puts down his drink just so he can give Whitchek his full attention, the necessity of folding his arms, of leaning his hips against the edge of the table, of tilting his head, of looking at the kid straight-freaking-on. "Son, what in the world would make you think it was a good idea to ask me that question?" There's only so much people watching a person can do when the crowd thins out. And it does thin out, especially in a weyr where every one has their job. It's not long before Rimara simply puts her arms down on the table and lays her head atop them. Her eyes drift closed, and she's soon pretty much out of the picture. Getting up early after closing the bar the night before certainly makes it hard to stay awake, so why bother? She should probably just go back to the dorms. Good question, that. Whitchek doesn't move or flinch, even if maybe he should. "Lotta things I've heard about you. A few I've seen. Don't think you're a liar, though. There's talk. You get any reputation you've earned, no skin off me. I don't think as it's right a man should get known for beating on a woman if he didn't, no matter who he is." "Seeing as it's my reputation, maybe you should leave it to me to worry about it." For N'thei, that's pretty verbose. Not-your-business would have sufficed, but... "Why don't you ask her what happened." One thing is for certain. People who sleep in public are doomed to be awakened rudely. And thus it is with Rimara. Not long after she dozes off, someone enters the living cavern with a baby. A very unhappy baby who is determined to let everyone within earshot know they're unhappy. The child shrieks, and Rimara sits bolt upright, eyes blinking. Well, that rather determines it. She's not going to stay and listen to a screaming baby, not when there are more peaceful places to relax. Like the patio. Yep, she's standing and heading out of the living cavern. "I got a sister," says Whitchek, like he's musing out loud. "Older. Married, couple kids. You know. I don't remember, when we were kids, her being the clumsy type. But funny thing, she got married, she started falling a lot. Blacked her eye once walking into a door. She'd swear to it. You'd ask her again, she'd swear again." He taps his fingertip on the table. "You ever blacked your eye walking into a door?" "You're sister's husband beats on her." To lay it plain. That's not really a statement, more a lead-in to the rest of N'thei's remarks on the subject, just the prologue. "So you think you need to make sure I'm not beating on candidates," he deduces, ignoring Whitchek's question-- because the answer's obvious. Still, there's that thing about his posture, that issue of... he can't quite comprehend why this kid thinks he needs to bring up every possible /bad/ subject. Brows quirk upwards just a little bit. "I don't think you are," Whitchek says. Then, touching the corner of his mouth in a way he's probably not even aware of, "Well, not the girls at any rate." He pushes himself up from the table and heads back to the dishes, pushing more remains into the garbage bin. "Don't know what happened to you. Don't know what kind of man would rather people thought that than answer the question. But... just because you don't care about your honor and integrity doesn't mean you don't have any." In fact, "Asked, though, so the thought that I beat her must have crossed your mind." N'thei says it flatly, an observation instead of a challenge. "The kind of man that realized something, son. People will think what people will think. The ones as know you well enough will know better, and the ones as don't?" He trails off, forehead inclined toward toothless as an example of that. "And yet you want to be respected," points out Whitchek. "Funny how that doesn't work out with letting people think what they'll think, if you go around trying to beat the desired response into them." But then, back to the first comment: "A lot of things have crossed my mind. I am thankfully wrong about some of them." "Difference though, isn't there." N'thei does get around to drinking more of that there klah, the one he went to all the trouble to pour and chase Rimara out on the grounds of obtaining. "You need to learn to respect rank and position. Regardless of what you think about the person wearing the knot, somehow, in some way, they earned it. So you learn to keep your mouth shut, or you learn to suffer the consequences." "Having a dragon is not the same thing as earning it," and Whitchek really is not quite stupid enough to go too far in that direction again--he has a point, somewhere. "Got a whole barracks full of people who're hoping to get into that boat. None of them have done anything to deserve it," making it clear he's not including himself in their numbers in some fashion or another. Leaving the empty mug on the edge of the table, since Whitchek's there to take care of it, N'thei shakes his head with a thread of very thin amusement to say, "And a fair few hoping it doesn't come their way. Never mind the fact that they said yes when they got asked." He's on his way out here in a minute, yes. Before the kid gets punched. "Can't win either way sometimes," says Whitchek with a shrug, in utter honesty. He steps over to claim the mug--but not too close just yet. You know. For just that reason. "Turn it down and there'd be no place for me going back again. Accept and Impress, and there's no place for me. Accept and don't, and... maybe. Have to take what I can get." He pauses, asks: "You ever heard of anybody Impressing who didn't want to?" Almost anxious-sounding. No answer, only a raise of his eyebrows. N'thei's 'maybe' is in that expression, that shrug, that pat-on-the-head cast behind his eyes while he heads out. |
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