Logs:Insensitive
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| RL Date: 24 November, 2015 |
| Who: Mirinda, W'leri |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Mirinda says the wrong thing. |
| Where: Herb Garden, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 13, Month 5, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: N'rov/Mentions, X'vin/Mentions |
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| A Fortian spring is nothing like a Monacoan one, but it will do: the new Weyrwoman has shown a pretty obvious preference for spending time outside when the weather is fine, and this afternoon, lunch time, is no different. She's settled upon one of the benches, with a small package of sandwiches beside her, though for the moment her eyes are closed and the food abandoned. The mask she's been wearing so often has been set aside, leaving her face bare, her hands presently ungloved. Still, she looks tired. New and old are bound to collide in time, and it happens that this afternoon is when W'leri shows up at the local herb garden; it has to be a coincidence, right? He's bundled up in his usual jacket, bare-handed and bare-headed. His literal stomping brings him in and, after a slight pause, up to the weyrwoman sitting casually on the bench. Without ado, he bends down to take one of her sandwiches, without asking. One bite turns into two and a grunt. Hello, he seems to say. Mirinda's eyes flicker open, but it's not until after that grunt that she deigns to actually respond to the wingsecond. "I hope you enjoy that," is what she says, in a quiet voice that carries a faint note of amusement. Those dark eyes now focus more intently upon W'leri, studying him with an expression that claims no disinterest. "It could use some salt." His uncanny observation is voiced whilst turning that sandwich around between his big, blunt fingers, but in the end he's disinterested. "So," dropping the half-eaten sandwich back on her package-paper, "you're Mirinda." They both know that she is and they both know that he knows that she is, but his blue eyes hone in on her darker eyes all the same. Mirinda lifts her eyebrows, though it's less a challenge than a question. "You, sir," she says, "have me at a disadvantage." It's tacit confirmation of what he's said, naturally, but it has her straightening her posture and giving him a searching glance nonetheless. The stare is meant to scare her off or illicit some reaction, but her lack of one has some sort of breaking-of-the-ice effect on W'leri. He grunts again and seats himself, without permission again, next to the goldrider, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. "You're telling me you haven't memorized every wing and its leaders yet, weyrwoman? Who's left." Mirinda presses her lips together, still making a show of bravado though there are signs, now, of some discomfort. "Even had I memorised each wing and its leaders," she says, after a moment, which is quiet acknowledgement that she has not, "I don't believe there are dragonpoker decks designed to help me learn faces, too. But, well." Her smile is a thin one. "I've had other things to attend to." "Someone should make you a gift of it," the bluerider suggests. Not that he's going to make that offer himself and risk being seen on friendly terms with the new weyrwoman; he has a reputation to think about and yadda yadda. "W'leri," he says, following an abbreviated silence, "Flint's. You had a chance to meet X'vin yet? N'rov doesn't need an introduction." Reserved as she is, Mirinda can't help that look of amused, semi-wistful disbelief. A gift? Unlikely. "W'leri," she repeats, extending one hand-- so brave!-- to offer for shaking. "I don't believe I've met X'vin. That is, not... properly." It's entirely possible, after all, she met him during Zaisavyth's flight. "You're lucky, with Flint. To have both wingleader and wingsecond still standing." Her expression has darkened. His blue eyes drop to the hand, but he's slow in removing his from the depths of cozy pocket-tude to shake hers in a grudging sign of respect (perhaps respect is too strong a word). "I don't know that I'd call it lucky. We live while a lot of amazing men died. I don't count myself lucky in that respect, but weyrwoman.." Well. Maybe he had something to say or maybe he didn't, but he's springing up from the bench and heading out. Girl, bye. Mirinda's mouth opens; she falters. It's not what she meant, but... her lips press together again, and she closes her eyes. She lets him go. |
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