Logs:Waiting in the Queue
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| RL Date: 8 February, 2013 |
| Who: Ainslee, Ceawlin |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Ceawlin and Ainslee are stuck in a hellaciously long line that ends triumphantly in Ainslee getting what she wants, Ceawlin getting what he wants, and they both acquire one of the (much-coveted) deliciously large sticky-buns. |
| Where: Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 2, Month 13, Turn 30 (Interval 10) |
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| 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. Contents: Ainslee Obvious exits: Inner Caverns Kitchen Bowl
Damn. All this food is going to make Ainslee fat. (Kalaith would never stand still for that.) The greenrider is staring down the line with the most forlorn expression ever: no chance of any gleeful manner to step or stance or expression. That'll come later, when she's loading her plate down with so much food that kitchen workers will eyeball her to see if she's doing the Worst Sin of the Buffet Line: taking food and then not eating it. It's not going to be a problem, though. She plucks absently at the instrument-case in front of her, unaware it's attached to Ceawlin. She's not familiar with the back of his head, see. "You should play us a song while we wait," alto seems smokier than normal, the husk aggravated by lack of usage. Ainslee is committing the greatest sin of the line: screwing with the person in front of her. At first, the slight jarring of instrument case does little to attract Ceawlin's attention. Pluck, pluck. Nerves are grated; teeth clenched. Pluck, pluck. Finally, attention is sealed and irritation is made known when the harper also commits that worst offense of line etiquette: turning around. "Say what now?" Incredulity lies thick within the tenor of voice, widening cold blue eyes, and casting sharp features in lines of shock. By-the-by: Ceawlin is entirely the type to be judgmental of the First Sin of the Buffet Line, taking more food than actually eating. Happenstance (or luck) sends the line shuffling forward three steps which Ceawlin's feet automatically take, distance put between harper and greenrider. Shock coalesces to sly: "Perhaps, if I knew who you were." Still bitter. Ainslee is in love with all the deadly sins, so why not add a few of the Numerical Sins of the Buffet Line to it? The greenrider beams upwards at Ceawlin, undaunted about his expression and reaction. Or maybe they're intrinsically motivating. Don't judge her. She doesn't seem to notice he said anything after the initial question. "I said," she replies, slowing her words down as if she's talking to a little kid or someone ESPECIALLY slow, "Maybe you should play us a song while you wait. You are," a dusting of fingers flickering whimsical towards his shoulder, though not actually coming close enough to touch, "--a Harper, are you not? Or do you just carry those things around for looks?" Her smile is SO charming and innocent and guileless. (Who she is? She's a bitch, that's who she is!) At least, Ainslee doesn't have to look too far up to view Ceawlin's pissed off expression. Unlike others, he is not one to tower. "Oh, I am," the boy tilts forward to dangerous lean on his toes, cold eyes giving no quarter as tenor comes tense. The lack of accent slips here, revealing a muddled mix of Crom and Hall before enunciation corrects itself back to flat-perfect. "I am very much a Harper." Teeth grit; smile affixes. "But I can't play without a name." Salient point, that. The line shuffles forward, zombie-style, another three steps. Suddenly: "HOT BREAD! FRESH BREAD!" Yelled out as long loafs of bread dance above the crowd's head with a kitchen's delivery to buffet. It starts a rustle. "Would you want a riot?" Odd question, that. "You /can't/ play without a name? Is there an oath you take when you first enter the craft?" Ainslee's familiar with that. 'Do no harm' isn't quite the same as 'cause no aggravation', though. Ceawlin's a really tempting pincushion to needle, see. Ainslee tracks the process of fresh bread, musing aloud: "That's going to be cold by the time we get up there." Fact of life. Now, back to passing this wait in the most amusing fashion possible! "A riot? I don't know. What's the context? A riot here, over bread?" Viva la Revolucion! and all of that? "Or a riot as in something," she assesses Ceawlin from hair to boot and back again, "--terribly amusing?" "I won't play without a name," Ceawlin rejoins, shoulders shrugging. It is not lack of respect for dragonriderkind, but the annoyance that the petite greenrider refuses to divulge something so simple as a name. "Either. Or. People have rioted over less." Mere musing aloud; instrument is hefted and the line shuffles forward in agonizing slowness. "At this rate," observation is made to Ainslee, almost amicably if one can believe that, "Everything will be cold by the time we get to the buffet and lunch will be here." Instrument is pulled from over his shoulder, and pulled out of the case - lyre, it is - and given a few testing plucks; decision to withhold changed, perchance. Purity of clear musical notes add to the cacophony of crowd. "You won't be able to hear it." Clearly: it's loud here. "Semantics. So you are a Harper, after all." Ainslee fidgets in line, peering past Ceawlin's shoulder at the bluff, bored bluerider standing in front of them all, blocking all line of sight to the actual food. She nods along with Ceawlin's words, apparently agreeing. (In other news, Ragnarok just started.) "Hey, maybe we'll get the first rush of lunch, and -that- will be hot." She's not always optimistic, though she is right this moment. When the Harper actually does pull out his instrument and start playing, her eyebrows nearly merge with her hairline. She's startled into silence for a moment, then smiling, offers as if they've just now met, "Ainslee. Hailstorm dragonhealer, of green Kalaith." -See- what compliance nets? Dirty glares from the crowds abound, the bluerider blocking the view of the food is also the bluerider that lets his big buddy cut into the line. "What?" he calls out to the raucous sound of infuriation, "I was saving his spot." Ceawlin eyerolls as the line would have shuffled forward, had the bluerider and his buddy also not come with a third. "At this rate," unreadable blue eyes land on Ainslee for a quick, considering look, "We'll starve until dinner." Pale brows tick up a notch, yet attention is pulled by the instrument - or rather the intent to play. Not a tall boy, the harper is still adept at protecting his instrument, though playing standing up is not his particular forte. Concentration, then, furrows brows and hardens an already sharp countenance. A dancing, bouncy stream of music comes from the lute, the notes full-bodied and pure. Loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to drown out the cavernous voices of a full breakfast crowd. Dumb blueriders. And their buddies. And their buddies' buddies. "Especially considering how much they will be likely to actually -eat-," Ainslee laments, peering over Ceawlin's shoulder. She rocks back on her heels as the Harper starts his craft, however, sending a quick, sharp glare behind her as the person next in line jostles her in an effort to speed this whole shindig up. "Listen." It's a directive, 'cause she's doing the same thing! It helps that he does listen, and the one behind him: a spread of appreciation, and a scattering of applause when the note seem to be lulling towards a close. "Fantastic." See? Ainslee can have praise! She beams up at the boy, because she's bipolar like that. Women are crazy; not that Ceawlin is dumb enough to verbalize the thought that casts dubiousness to his expression. Compliments from Ainslee are like the proverbial white dragon: rare-to-non-existent. "Thank you," the harper boy accepts such praise with the seemingly humble bow of body and head, hiding expression that's directed to the floor. By the time he's straight again, the instrument is getting tucked away and settled once more against his back. The line surges forward suddenly; the bluerider, his buddy, his buddy's buddy and now suddenly the buddy's buddy's buddy (who appeared from the crowd) all somehow have plates of food that are getting scarfed up while standing in line waiting for seconds. Blueriders are, clearly, like football players this morn. "What the..." Ceawlin's tenor'd voice comes like a sharp growl, too high to be menacing, too disturbing to not be. "That should not be allowed." Look is shot t'wards Ainslee, meaning clear: she's just the dragonrider to fix this. Tiny little greenrider. "You're welcome," Ainslee replies, the very model of ideal manners. Eyeballing the line ahead of Ceawlin, she shakes her head. Dumb football blueriders... and buddies of blueriders. "Snowdrift," she explains to the Harper, as if that explains everything. Modulating her voice upwards and speaking from the diaphram - check it out, see, Harpers aren't the only ones with the ability over vocal control! - the wee little greenrider barks, "Oy! Don't make me take this up with Mielline!" The biggest of the blueriders - the original one - has the grace to look well enough ashamed and shepherd his buddies down the line, finally leaving space for Ceawlin and the rest of the line to move forwards. (But they take the last of the sticky-buns with them, notably - giant heifers.) "Finally." Ainslee directs expectant gaze on Ceawlin: get on with it, now! And everything else. Bluerider football players are good at hoovering up the food. Not only are the last sticky buns gone, but what eggs and bacon remain are long-shriveled and just look sad. One muffin remains - tantalizing, fresh. A fruit and nut concoction of deliciousness; ripe, plump and delicious looking. Ceawlin leans over his empty tray, looking down the line and then casting that same look down the other way, Ainslee's direction and beyond. "Not much left." Too early for lunch, too. Harper fingers are quick to snatch that last muffin, expression gloating in the conquering of the muffin. The sad remains of eggs, bacon, and a wilted slice of too-much-buttered toast are also tossed on his plate. At least there's some food remaining, though those behind Ainslee are gearing up for a food riot by the sound of their dismay. "Nothing quite like angering the natives," low comment, directed at the greenrider, but with dagger-eyes to the bluerider football'ers. Who, to note, are enjoying their feast. Poor Ceawlin: 'cause just as soon as he's done filling his plate, here comes a shout: "LAST CALL FOR BREAKFAST! LAST CALL!" Two kitchen-workers are laying out platters with alacrity: buttered biscuits, bacon, a ginormous pan of raisin-speckled-and-icing-swimming sticky buns, scrambled eggs still steaming. Ainslee has an expression of beautific serenity as she loads her plate with her normal tremendous amount of food. She even does a random act of senseless kindness, plunking down one of those gorgeous and ginormous sticky-buns onto Ceawlin's plate without any question of if he wants it or not. "Growing boys need a lot of food," she advises. She's totally a growing boy herself then, by the look of that heaping plate... Or a growing fat greenrider; expression hides such thoughts - which saves his life, probably - that Ceawlin may have. "Why, thank-you," comment comes with a thin-lipped smile that does nothing to chill the ice in blue eyes, but sincerity (were one to go by tone alone) is there. Tray balanced on one hand, the other hand plucks up such delicious sticky-bun-ness and with a savage bite, the boy tips the bun towards the small greenrider and says with a smirk, "We survived the line without too much collateral damage." Which is a shame since those football'er blueriders totally deserved to have sustained such. With much rejoicing in the line past Ainslee, and the aromas of breakfast once more thick in the air, Ceawlin takes his meager meal with his massively delicious sticky-bun and heads off back to wherever it is he eats (maybe a dark cave where there sits a gilded throne). "Later, Ainslee." Oh look, like a good-boy, Ceawlin even offers verbal acknowledgement of retreat. That somehow, also has its own sort of dark promise. Hey, hey, now, Ainslee is curvy. Kalaith would never allow her to get... well, too overweight. She isn't, at the moment, at any rate. The greenrider in question lifts her own sticky-bun in salute, well-enough pleased that he's going off and not inviting himself to eat breakfast with her - though she wouldn't, like, say that out loud. She does have some modicrum of tact... just a pinch. "Enjoy your day, Harper!" She airily waves her stickybun in farewell, and turns towards the Hailstorm table with a little extra bounce in her step. |
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