Logs:Sweet Nothings
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| RL Date: 13 February, 2016 |
| Who: Olivya, W'leri |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: There are definitely a lot of sweet nothings exchanged between Olivya and W'leri on Turnday's eve. |
| Where: Living Cavern, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 13, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ebeny/Mentions, N'rov/Mentions |
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Fort's enormous Living Cavern is a vast, echoing space, with deep set
windows carved into the outer wall to let in light and fresh air. Large
enough to house the entire human population of the Weyr with plenty of
room to spare, the most common use of the living cavern is as a communal
eating and gathering space. Long tables with benches usually line the main
part of the cavern with a table set aside for the Weyrleaders on a raised
dais, as well as other smaller tables set along the walls for quieter
dining. Tapestries depicting historic moments in the Weyr's history and
scenery from the coverage area decorate the walls and lend the space a
warmer feel than bare stone.
To the east, a large doorway leads out to the Bowl, with a sturdy metal
door that can be closed during inclement weather or Threadfall. The
Nighthearth is tucked away in a little alcove near the door. The large
main hearth is used for cooking and for heat, though chairs are often
pulled up nearby for the Weyr's elderly to enjoy the heat. A swinging door
not far from the hearth leads into the Kitchen that shares the wall behind
the hearth. To the west, a passage opens up into the Weyr's Inner Caverns. The glows have been set low for the evening's celebration, catching and reflecting the light in the living cavern. Room has been cleared for dancing and the Weyrharper plays. Drink and food are plentiful if not of the best quality. Those seeking that would be better served at the Fountain. It is where one would expect to find Olivya, perhaps, but instead the Weyrlingmaster is here, dressed in a soft lavender thing that manages to be feminine, wrapped around her and pulled to a knot at her waist to perfectly accent her curves before the flowing skirts sweep to the floor. The reason for her presence is obvious enough in the number of weyrling knots featured in the cavern, and by her own spot strategically near the alcohol. Not that it stops her from having her own glass as she watches, sidelined in observation, nor does it stop her from letting the weyrlings drink as well. Presumably, though, if one were to try to drink too much--. It's a night for dancing and debauchery, all on the Weyr's dime! Except for people like W'leri, that's every night. He might have been absent suspiciously from the Fountain in recent sevendays, and more so his wing's normal activity in fights, booze binges, and womanizing lightened, but Malachite has made it out for Turnover is full regalia. W'leri has been rubbing elbows with some of the other wingleaders all night, but now, glass empty, mosies on over to the beverage table. "Weyrlingmaster," he drawls, blue eye conspicuously mirthful, though his mouth lies in a flat line. Feet spread, he waits patiently behind other revelers who came before him, and arches a brow at the blonde woman. "Enjoying your Turnover?" "Wingleader," Olivya tosses back casually in turn, her own lips twitching into what could be a smile before it disappears. "No, not this turn. I've given my assistants the evening off, so it will be my responsibility to herd the children back to the barracks and watch over them while they sleep." Her gaze slides away to run over the rest of the cavern in a quick study, adding as she does so, "At least your new children do not need to be looked after quite as much, do they? Which, I don't think I have congratulated you on yet." The line moves and so does W'leri, but only a step forward. "Can't let them enjoy themselves at all, huh?" His voice gets drier as he speaks, and his eyes rove around the room, seeking out the faces of the hapless weyrlings she's supposed to be herding. "Thanks," he says, jerking his chin in a stiff nod, "but mine know they won't get slapped on the hand for a bit of harmless fun," taking another swayed-step towards the beverages. The curve of Olivya's brow upwards is a measured thing, and it's dry amusement that edges her words as she answers the man with, "Harmless fun is never a problem, darling. Anything that would endanger my weyrlings-- Well, I do have a job to do, don't I?" If there is something else that she would like to say, it is hidden well behind the mask of that distant humor and the perfect mimic of a Lady's polite facade. "Though, it is my first Turnover at Fort. Perhaps Ebeny would have done it differently." The woman in front of W'leri glances back and gives him a disapproving look; she's on Team Olivya, apparently. "How old are they? A turn? What's the harm in a couple drinks? Put some hair on their chest." He thumbs his own with a closed fist for emphasis. "Ebeny would have done shit differently," he agrees, all dry rasp and gritty sarcasm. "Why don't you go ahead and give them some drinks, wingleader? If it will make you happy," invites Olivya, gesturing with her own glass of wine in a sweeping gesture to the room. "You are, after all, a proper Fortian. You know better than I do." Her words sound perfectly sincere, not even a touch of anything less in the tone or the way she holds herself. Nor in the study she makes of W'leri at the invitation. "Why would I go and do that?" W'leri asks, perfectly innocent of all wrong-doings -- look at that face. "You seemed very concerned over it. I believe you said something about chest hair?" Olivya asks, apparently quite the actor since every note of the question sounds as if she's recalling a distant conversation rather than asking the question obnoxiously. "If you are concerned about the state of our weyrlings, I absolutely want to give you the chance to correct it. After all, they will be yours in another turn." "Shells, woman. You're foisting your weyrlings on me already." W'leri stares upwards towards the vastness of the heavens.. or, more rightly, the craggy ceiling of the living cavern; maybe he has pointers scrawled up there, maybe.. not. "I haven't seen a one I liked yet." It's, obviously, her fault. Obviously, and Olivya takes that accusation with all of the grace of a Lady Holder, nothing slipping in her soft features as she tips her chin in a nod. "That is quite the cause for concern, I'm sure. Especially since your Weyrleader isn't going to look kindly on his new, untried, untested wingleader not making the effort to absorb not even one weyrling into his wing," she murmurs back conversationally, taking a sip from her wine. Now, they're getting somewhere. W'leri points a finger at her, his big face breaking into a disbelieving grin. "Oh, ho. You know the weyrleader that good? You fucking him, then?" Except, he doesn't look as if he believes that either, since he's snorting and turning his attention back to the line, which moves up another step. "Darling, are you concerned about who I may or may not be sleeping with?" is Olivya's counter question, not saying no. But then, maybe since W'leri doesn't seem to truly believe it, she doesn't feel the need to. "Fuck whoever you want to, whenever you want to. I don't give a shit. I'm only worried when it concerns my own neck.. stuck out there. What sweet nothings have you whispered into N'rov's ear? Bunch of Monaco bullshit," W'leri mutters, swaggering forward one more step; any more and he's to the front of the line, hurray! Olivya suggests in a quiet, suggestive murmur, all soft syllables in counter to W'leri's, "Then don't make your neck such an attractive target, wingleader." Her iced blue eyes slide over the man, falling all the way to his feet and lifting back to meet his slowly. "Though, if I did want to presumably sabotage you, I can only assume you'll do that work for me soon enough. All I would need to do is wait." "Olivya," W'leri says, and gets interrupted by the server who hands him a refreshed glass. He turns away from the table, takes a testing sip of his drink, and then finishes up his earlier thought, "You should know better. They don't call me a stubborn ass for nothing." And he winks. "W'leri," Olivya answers with a lilt over the name, rolling off her lips. "That isn't all they call you." But she lifts her glass in a salute to his, for all that she doesn't move closer to do a proper toast with met glasses and all that comes with it. It isn't midnight, after all. "I guess we'll see one way or another," is her promise for the coming turn, however. "What can I say? I'm popular." W'leri lifts his glass to her and walks off, his contribution to the evening complete. He doesn't seem concerned about the upcoming turn, but he's been known to be unwise, so... |
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