Logs:Not Discussing the Weather
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| RL Date: 22 June, 2008 |
| Who: N'thei, Oysric |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 1, Month 11, Turn 16 (Interval 10) |
| Getting chilly out, isn't it? No deterrent though, not for N'thei. He sits in one of the wrought iron chairs, dragged out to the edge of the patio where it catches the first slant of afternoon sun coming in over the rim of the bowl, with his feet propped on the edge of an empty-for-the-winter potted plant. His attention fixes across the bowl on one of the Wings, all ranged out like they're preparing for drills, the noises of gear and riders and dragons echoing between bowl-walls. Oysric's quiet steps from the bowl take him to the patio ledge. Stopping at the threshold, his hands pulling up on his turtle neck for a moment before moving on to a more central part of the area. The resident stands for a moment, his eyes glancing toward that first slant of sun before making his way toward one part of the area. While not specifically hunting anyone out, Oys somehow finds N'thei, giving him a brief flicker of recognition before moving on toward a nearby chair and sitting down slowly. "Frost on those chairs." N'thei volunteers this information abruptly. There's nothing to say he took notice of Oysric, nary a glance, a lash-bat, a momentary look away from the Wing that now rises over the Weyr in practiced unison. "Was, anyway. Freeze your ass if you're not careful." Tilting back a touch, he puts the edge of his chair beyond the edge of shadow, just out of sunlight to bring the contrast to light: that's why he's sitting in the sun, see. Oysric looks at the chair he sits in, his brows furrowing with obvious distaste. The resident then stands back up and reviews his next choice with lengthy pause, his eyes flickering from one chair to another. He then chooses another chair that inevitably takes him closer to the Weyrleader, a chair that seems seemingly, thankfully hit by that slant of sunlight from the afternoon. "I'd rather not," Oys replies as he sits back down in his game of musical chairs. Innocuous much? "A'son's brother?" N'thei has nothing to watch now that the Wing's gone *between*, so he finds a glance toward Oysric, scans for recollection, comes up with that deduction. "Oysric," he tells N'thei, his attention focused now. "... Jolak's younger." He glances to his chair, just in case he might actually freeze his ass off, whether or not he made the right choice is a second chair to sit on. He seems comfortable enough. With the chair, at least. N'thei says something under his breath, hard to really hear what. Fucked-up name, maybe? Anyway-- "Seen you before. Don't like your brother." Jolak? A'son? "Lower caverns then?" Oysric's brows rise briefly at that mutter of N'thei before lowering them, just a flicker of movement. There and back again. "Nothing wrong with that," Oys replies back to him. His back leans back only slightly, carefully. "Lower caverns," he repeats, nodding only slightly. "Trying to be a stablehand." "Why?" N'thei sniffs vaguely in Oyrsric's direction, his nose quickly flickered like he's trying to catch a whiff of the fellow across six feet of distance. "Can't get enough smell of--" He breaks off, lets the thought finish itself. Oysric's lips contort into a smirk at N'thei's latter words. "I prefer silent company," Oys answers N'thei's initial question dryly. "The smell..." he adds, his nose wrinkling in distaste at the thought. ".. can be washed away." A smile from N'thei is a rare thing, but Oysric's comment surprises one into place briefly. "Implying you'd rather I shut up?" Perversity alone is liable to prevent that, now that it's come to light. "Did I say that?" Oysric asks N'thei, his hazel eyes looking toward the Weyrleader innocently enough. Innocent or perhaps pointed, Oys' comment to him makes the resident's lips curve into a slight, tight smile, if only to tamp the sheer audacity of his earlier statement down. N'thei tweaks a brow upward, head dragged over to give Oysric a simple, direct look. "Really." Audacity must be lost on him, or just leave the man unaffected; now he slouches deeper into his chair, laces his fingers loosely across his belly, and directs his attention back across the barely-active bowl. "Your brother ever run off with that harper?" Oysric's lips contort into another tight smile again, threatening to curve into a grin. Soon, though, at the question of his brother, he lays back into his chair, leaning back for comfort or support, that smile vanishing all too quickly. "I'm afraid I don't keep track," Oys replies calmly. "Of any of my brothers' affairs." Another look toward N'thei, brows arching in curiousity. "Should I ask for you if I see him?" "No." Big surprise. N'thei shrugs blandly, missing the arched-brow look from Oysric what with his own attention being settled complacently across shadows-and-sunlight. "A'son's crippled. If you care to hear it." Gossip is certainly not his forte. "Unpredictable weather," Oysric replies back. The blandness of N'thei's shrug lost on him as much as the arched brow is lost on N'thei. "I heard." And that's all there is on that matter, apparently, as he places his hands in his lap and looks elsewhere, somewhere other than the person talking. N'thei: "Mmn." Then silence. It's a shame there are no birds to twitter in a bowl, no stream to trickle away happily in the background. Just the quiet of a breeze across stone, voices down at the far end of the bowl, metal warming in the sun. Nice day-- bad conversation. The resident, seemingly completely uninterested in the Weyrleader now, leans back against his warming iron-wrought chair. His hair flickers some at the breeze that passes by, his hands lightly clasped as, for this single moment anyways, all seems well, all seems quiet. "Nice day," he finally mutters, just barely loud enough for the current company to hear, voicing his opinion. Barely. Long pause. Maybe N'thei didn't hear at all. Then-- "Hadn't noticed." The shuffle of steps, scrape of metal interrupts the placidity; he stands up, stretching after long confinement. "Thought as much," Oysric answers. The resident's eyes flicker once more to N'thei as he hears that tell-tale scrape of metal, the shuffle of steps. And soon, Oys does the same. Only, instead of remaining where he is, simply stretching, the resident gives the Weyrleader one nod of more acknowledgement and turns around, walking back, leaving the warming metal chairs behind as well as the view of the so-called nice day. |
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