Logs:Rug Burn
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| RL Date: 4 February, 2014 |
| Who: Faye, N'dalis |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Faye's blanket has an accident. Dal steps in to assist. |
| Where: Nighthearth, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 12, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| It's one of those clear, sunny autumn days that threatens to be the last of its kind for the season and has drawn many a person outside to enjoy the fresh air and light while it's still around. It's created something of a lull in the caverns, with both living cavern and nighthearth quiet, or the latter /was/, before a panicked exclamation rings out from the smaller cavern. Inside, beside the hearth, one of the afghans has been left just that bit too close to the fire; close enough for a spark to take hold and for dry fibre to light to life. The blanket burns not unlike paper, and it leaves Faye scrambling from /under/ it to desperately stamp on the offending thing before any more damage can be done. "/Shells/," says N'dalis, whose relatively ambling path into the nighthearth turns into something more hasty as he scurries towards Faye and the hearth. It rather looks, for a moment, as though he's going to dump his mug of klah onto the offending blanket, but evidently he rethinks it: that could get messy. Still, he's got big feet, and a few good stamps from him can certainly do something to keep the fire from spreading further. As the flames die down and there's nothing but a mess of charred, burnt blanket beneath feet both helpful and not so, Faye lets out an angry, frustrated little noise as she draws herself up and drags back what she can find of her composure, seemingly more annoyed at her lapse than the fact that there's a destroyed blanket (and rug) at her (unhelpful) feet. She darts a quick look between the black, sooty mess and N'dalis as thicker smoke begins to rise, just to bless them all the more. "That has /never/ happened to me before," she feels the need to say, blush beginning to colour her cheeks. "Thank you. That could have been... quite unpleasant." N'dalis' expression does not judge, which is something. "Burning the nighthearth down is not on my list of life ambitions," he allows, carefully, though the corners of his mouth twist up into the distant relation of a smile. "Nor yours, I suspect. You're welcome. I'm glad I could help. We should... get rid of the evidence." The smoke gets waved inefficiently away form his face with his free hand; the other hastily sets his mug down upon a nearby surface. It's amazing he hasn't spilled it already. "No... It is not currently on my top ten list," Faye agrees, angling another look down at the black tangles underfoot, "nor do I expect it ever to be." As he sets down his mug, she glances about and eventually discovers the small shovel presumably used for coal, set just inside the wall of the hearth, after several moments of staring ineffectually at one chair or another. Before reaching for said shovel, she crouches down and pokes at the black heap, which thankfully doesn't reveal anything white-hot, but she does get smudged fingers for her trouble. "On second thought, perhaps we should just fling everything into the fire and run," she deadpans. "Blame the group of kids we saw running out of here, giggling," suggests Dal, whose sense of humor is not especially famed, but does seem to come out at moments like this. "I don't imagine they would get anything worse than a lecture on being careful with Weyr resources." His gaze follows Faye's actions, though he himself seems a little uncertain on how to proceed. "It's just going to fall to pieces, isn't it?" "Because blankets and rugs are among the most precious resources we have." Faye's humour is not terribly bright, but it is dry. When she reaches for the shovel, she ends up just sitting there, hunched and staring at the mess like it's some logic puzzle she can't figure out, meaning she has to concede, "...I believe so." Yes, it is going to fall apart. She lets out an audible sigh and tips a look back up to N'dalis. "You may run and save yourself if you wish," she invites. "You did already save me once. Twice, and I might end up with a reputation for needing to be rescued." "I'm a greenrider," says N'dalis, with a firm shake of his head, though the comment must seem terribly random. "We have a reputation to uphold: rescuing pretty girls from terrible situations. Or... is that bronzeriders? I may be confused." Rather, though the corners of his mouth are twisting further, so it's clearly intentional. "I won't cut and run. I'm invested, now. Would it make matters worse if we stole the basket," he indicates the bread basket, "and shoveled it all into that to get rid of it?" "Green, bronze; does it matter?" She's rather matter of fact about that, not offhand. "What is a dragon's colour to really mean?" Faye gives a twitch of her shoulders, twisting to bring the bread basket into her line of vision, and finally lets something like a smile tug at her lips. "Though I believe you may have chosen poorly as to what to invest in, I am glad you are invested enough to consider basket-stealing. It looks like it is our only option." And, to that end, she starts to scrape the remains of the blanket together into a neater pile, rather than a... splat. Despite his joke, Dal seems to approve of Faye's response to it, the firm nod of his head gestured as agreement. "Any man may be a gentleman about it," he agrees. "Or woman." He turns towards the hearth, carefully emptying the basket of all those goodies - though he's quick to lay them out upon a napkin. The basket is relatively finely woven, which is something, and he presents it with a flourish. "I'll take the secret to my grave, of course," he adds. "Or - between, rather. I'm Dal, by the by. N'dalis." Faye feigns great disappointment, her sigh an affected one, this time. "I thought you were going to eat your way through everything to free up the basket," she 'confesses', voice still laced with that same, dry humour. It's a shame that all she can do in answer to that flourish is to start to shovel black, grainy, charred fabric into the basket, a flicker of distaste passing across her features when it starts to let off more smoke. Hopefully, the basket won't burn through. "Faye," is supplied once she's started the task. "I work at Dice. What is your green's name?" "I don't know what it says about me, that that never even occurred to me," says Dal in answer. "I think I'd explode, though, and then you'd have /another/ mess to clean... unless you'd just abandon me to that." There's not much he can do to help, at this point, though he remains where he is: crouched low, watching for stray sparks. "It's nice to meet you, Faye. Her name's Suraieth. Su, most of the time. She's..." He must have meant to finish that sentence, but his eyes have gone glazed in that tell-tale way. "No, I promise I would scrape you into the basket just like all of this," Faye replies, unable to keep a ripple of genuine mirth from sneaking up on her to brighten her voice and ease the stern lines of her face. She keeps shovelling, and though she gets most of the dead blanket up off the floor, it reveals the matter of the rug beneath and the odd, ragged hole and stone floor visible through it. "Suuuraaaieth," she tries out, all vowels sounds that seem to make her happy. "It sounds like a Lady's name. Is she--" But then she clocks that he's stopped talking. "Are /you/--?" Okay? It's at least partially that recitation of his green's name, completed so happily, that grabs Dal's attention back. It's his turn to flush, though his expression itself is more along the lines of 'utter besotted' than 'embarrassed.' "Saying her name just got her attention," he explains, giving Faye a thoughtful and studying glance. "It's a beautiful name, isn't it? All those vowels. It's... uh, well. She thinks you should Stand. For the clutches. If you're... interested." "It is--" Faye starts to say, until she's caught out by the need to supply thoughts or an answer of a completely different sort. She tilts her head a little, rug forgotten, though the shovel still remains in her grip. "I would be... interested," she replies, slowly and carefully, her focus somewhere between there and not there. "...She... means it?" From clipped, clear syllables, now her words turn stilted. "It is not an... idle thought? A... passing consideration?" N'dalis' attention is caught by Faye's reaction; he's still studying her, still intent, a little breath caught and then released, as she answers. "Suraieth," he says, "is not one for idle thoughts, in my experience. I don't know what her... that is to say, I don't know how good a search dragon she is, because this clutch is our first, but... she does mean it, quite genuinely." Faye lets out a bark of laughter that doesn't seem to have anything whatsoever to do with N'dalis' response. "Are you sure that she is not simply sorry for me, because I nearly burned down a portion of the Weyr?" she utters, safety sought in ill-timed humour, as if it could mask the tension easing from her frame. "...Okay." A deep breath, then a sharp nod. "If you are certain, then yes, I will. ...And as long as you keep your promise and deny all if anyone asks about this rug." This rug that she points to. "I don't know that Suraieth has ever felt sorry for anyone," says N'dalis, serious despite the fact that he doesn't seem - expression-wise - to have taken Faye's question as anything but humor. "I'll never tell." This, too, is serious... though after he's said it, the hint of a smile begins to play about the corners of his mouth. And then: "Good. Su's pleased. We had one who wasn't sure, and it bothered her. She thinks people should be decisive." "I will... try not to disappoint her," Faye assures, suddenly pushing herself to her feet as though she /needs/ to move after having made that decision. "And not go back on my word, to begin with." She reaches back towards the hearth to hang the shovel back on its hook, then casts another look down at the floor. And /then/ at N'dalis' feet and her own. "Thank you," she says sincerely. "For your help and for... asking." Hands begin to reach for the edge of the rug, intending to fetch it up (and not upend the greenrider). "Are your shoes okay? Did I destroy them too?" N'dalis, sounding pleased: "That's all I ask. Honestly--" He glances at his shoes, and gives a shrug. "They're boots, they're made to be heavy-duty. They're /fine/. And for the rest, you're absolutely welcome." His smile is genuine; so are the words that accompany it. "I wish you the best of luck. Now: get rid of that," he indicates the basket, "and go get yourself settled." Some measure of discomfort is visible in Faye's gaze when she registers N'dalis' instructions as an order, whether they're meant that way or not. She hesitates, discomfort shading to something vulnerable that she masks the next second, as she gathers up the basket and straightens, relinquishing the burnt rug to the greenrider's care. With so many Candidates around, she's learned enough to know to murmur, "Sir," in answer, as she tries to smile and presents him with a ghost of one instead. Still, it doesn't stop her, and she does as she should, rushing off to hide the evidence. Which... confuses Dal. But. Too late for that. So the greenrider is left to reclaim his (now cold) klah, and eye the rug. Oh well. It wasn't him! |
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