Effing greenriders.
RL Date: 5/17/09
IC Date: 10/7/19
Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr(#267RJs)
Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a day-to-day basis.
The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating: swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day.
"...without cherry brandy!" is the impassioned cry of a cook, known more for her ability to imbibe than to create. The old woman stands in front of a crate on a counter, shuffling despondently through its contents while, just down the counter a ways, N'thei is off-loading one with a slightly less dismal air. "Could get you some at a fair price if you're looking to go that route," he remarks with a heartless-seeming shrug at the watery-eyed old woman. "Otherwise, best settle in for a long, dry winter, mum."
Isziyo is here, chained to the tub of dirty dishes. Any close to the towering candidate could potentially hear the low, rumbling mumble of a tuneless hum. Hey, he's not bothering anyone, he's not looking to do anything other than his chores, and he's most /certainly/ not looking over at the drama happening a short way down from him regarding N'thei and the cook. Nope. Not at all. He knows his place. And so the young man stands, rinsing a load of freshly-scrubbed plates with fresh water. His eyes stay downturned on his job, focused in on his task.
Gr'kaif, at least, doesn't barge straight into the middle of everything at once, but he is watching the unloading process with blatant curiosity as he roams around the kitchens with his usual routine of flirting, swiping food, and mostly getting in the way of good people trying to actually do their jobs. People like Isziyo. The greenrider hops up on the counter right near the dishwashing candidate, leans over to wonder without lowering his voice, "What's going on now?"
It's going on here and there throughout the kitchen-- what's left of the High Reaches tithe getting stowed here and there, unpacked from crates into cupboards and pantries or carried in to the storerooms. The woman goes on to bemoan the loss of all that brandy in a bothersome, blubbery way until N'thei, who apparently is not going to get any money out of this venture, takes his crate elsewhere. "Off," to Gr'kaif in lieu of a greeting, coming to stop about six feet from where the greenrider's gone and availed himself of the countertop. The candidate... well, maybe he can't recognize the kid from the back or something. Since he's not immediately trying to punch him in the head.
Isziyo compresses his lips together, perhaps the only sign of his displeasure at being so obvious questioned. He gazes askance at Gr'kaif, and then bobs his head in an approximation of a salute. His hands are a bit busy currently, y'see. "I'm not sure, sir," Isz replies, his deep bass rumble polite. He doesn't turn when he hears N'thei close on his position, simply shifts to stack clean dishes in the drying hamper.
So unceremonious is that greeting, that Gr'kaif pouts for a moment at being removed from his seat. But he obligingly slides back down, with a put-upon sigh; and when he scoots over, stepping out of N'thei's way, it's only to get into Isziyo's, invading the candidate's personal space to make room for the rider. "Oh, 'scuse me," he says, not very apologetic at all as he flashes a winning grin up at Isziyo. "Don't mind me here."
N'thei's effing-greenriders remark is far from subtle, his voice lowered only because muttering the comment gives it just the right amount of derisive inflection. In the space previously occupied by the aforementioned effing-greenrider, he drops his crate with a promising clink of earthenware-and-glass, with a sideways look at the dishwashing candidate. "Milani hasn't got you lot unpacking things?" he asks doubtfully, itching to catch one of the aptly dubbed Little Bastards stepping out of line.
Isziyo glances down at Gr'kaif, his expression neutral. "Of course not," he states, the tone completely bland as he carefully maneuvers himself to lift a stack of dirty dishes up from one side of the greenrider and pivot to place them in the trough of soapy water. "Just don't yell at me if I accidentally jab you with an elbow." Maybe Isz is just used to being utilized as a shield against N'thei. That would explain the tolerance level he's displaying. The candidate gives a brief glance to said bronzerider, and gives a low noise, nearly a grunt. "No, sir. She told me to keep washing dishes until she told me otherwise, sir," comes the placid reply. He is working rather diligently at said dishes, and the stack of dirty ones is impressive. Well, go figure. Isz is the only one left to wash them, and while he's efficent, he's only one person.
Gr'kaif heard that! Not that he seems to mind. He just smirks at N'thei in return, though after a moment his eyes flick back to Isziyo. "No elbowing now, I might start to think you don't want me around," he chides the candidate, still amused rather than dissuaded. And he stays right there, in the way, even when he looks back to N'thei. "So this is it?" he asks, with a nod at the crate, a tip of his head to indicate the others scattered around.
"You can sock him. Won't tell anyone." There's no indication whether he's talking to Gr'kaif or Isziyo for that one, seeing as N'thei's preoccupied putting some jars of spices and stuff up on shelves where there's no way in hell anyone who habitually works in the kitchens-- dishwashing candidates aside-- are ever going to reach them. "Not all of it," he answers for Gr'kaif, pushing a couple more items on to the shelf before the crate is empty. "Some went straight to stores, and the rest went..." Open hands, clueless shrug; where the rest of that tithe went really is the million dollar question, isn't it.
"No, sir, wouldn't want that," Isziyo replies to Gr'kaif in that same quiet tone that is his standard. His gaze darts over towards N'thei at the bronzerider's statement, and his lips curve into a faint smirk at the word - presumably he's deciding that it was stated towards him. And still he scrubs, scrub-a-dub-dub, merely listening to the conversation about him.
"The rest went away," Gr'kaif finishes cluefully. Isn't he just so smart? And he leans one elbow the counter again, chin propped in his hands. "So what are you going to do about it this time?" No response about who's hitting and who's getting hit; probably, he can guess which end he's going to end up in, next to the two big guys.
Honestly? "Profit from you people being unable to take matters into your own hands." Leaning his head back, N'thei peers at the woman who's gone and collapsed her arms on the edge of a crate that is entirely bereft of liquid courage, straightens back up to drag his own crate off the counter and let it hang from one hand. "Know anyone as needs ale at a fair price?" To either of them, with a salesman-smile that seems weird. Given it's N'thei and any smile, particularly an almost-nice-looking-one, doesn't fit.
Isziyo snorts in amusement, the sound faint. He shifts a gaze over towards N'thei, expressionless, just in time to see that smile. If it creeps Isz out, the young man doesn't show it. He clears his throat, however. "Sir, if you'll excuse me, I do need to be where you are at," he directs at Gr'kaif, gesturing at the fact that the clean-water tub is over on the greenrider's side of where Isz is standing.
"Gr'kaif," the greenrider corrects at once, not standing on such formalities as 'sir.' Instead, he'll stand on N'thei, sort of: when Isziyo needs to get where he is, Gr'kaif scoots over toward the bronzerider to get all up in /his/ business this time. After all, he's smiling, right? Right? "I could maybe talk up some friends of mine, maybe..." Gr'kaif suggests slowly. "But... you aren't going to play at hero again? You and A'son and--oh, well, not the old man this time; he knocked himself off."
Difference being, when N'thei's personal space is invaded, he will just go off someplace where there aren't any effing-greenriders to annoy him. Like toward that old woman, to take the crate away, leaving her to puddle tears on the countertop instead. "Which part of 'profit from you people' didn't make sense," he wonders in a paused moment, head tipped askew, a couple of bottles of-- hey! Cooking sherry! The old woman's all over that, liberating them hurriedly from N'thei's hands.
Isziyo washes dishes. This is what he is good at. Carry on. For the record, the candidate is dutifully washing his way through a titantic amount of dirty dishes, while Gr'kaif lingers in the general area and N'thei is doing... whatever it is that N'thei's do.
Chores aside, somehow, when Whitchek ends up invading the kitchen, he's always asking for the same thing: "Ice?" At least this time, it doesn't *look* like somebody's recently hit him in the face. "Can I get some--" Crap. If there's one thing he's learning, it's to be wary of any area sporting one or more individuals taller than he is. Softer voice, to one of the women, someone relatively safe: "Can I get some ice? In a towel? Please?" Let's try not to attract attention.
When N'thei moves away, Gr'kaif just pouts. "I was just asking! And I said I'd help. Maybe. If it was worth all my effort, too," he points out, with a sniff. "I like profiting, too, but not if you're going to be so touchy about it all." And he, spurned by the bronzerider, scoots back over into Isziyo's way again, though there's no good reason for it now. Not that there really was the first time, either, but.
In a rare moment of humorous cognizance, N'thei gestures with the neck of a sherry-bottle-- one that he does not let the grabby old woman take away from him-- toward Whitchek. "That's funny, isn't it. Ice. Reaches." Hah. Distracted, he totally misses out on Gr'kaif being all butt-hurt (which is the term he'd use if he hadn't missed out on it, just for the record), and concludes the subject with a simple, "Don't remember inviting you to partake of the profits." Anyway, having spread cheer and joy to all and sundry, he takes off toward the inner storerooms to unpack crates.
IC Date: 10/7/19
Kitchen, High Reaches Weyr(#267RJs)
Polished marble and granite surfaces, gleaming metalwork and pale woods characterize the vaulted fastness of the kitchen. Several large hearths gape red-mouthed against the outer wall of the cavern, their fires almost always stoked for the constant cooking the Weyr requires to feed its denizens. Sinks line the wall to one side of the hearths, providing ample space to wash large quantities of dishes, while to the other, cabinetry and a deep pantry provide storage space for items commonly needed on a day-to-day basis.
The remaining wall space is taken up by passageways and extra seating: swinging doors that lead variously to the main living cavern, the inner caverns and the storage rooms, a counter-height pass-through for food service to the Snowasis, and a series of nooks equipped with tables and benches for quick, out-of-the-way meals any time of day.
"...without cherry brandy!" is the impassioned cry of a cook, known more for her ability to imbibe than to create. The old woman stands in front of a crate on a counter, shuffling despondently through its contents while, just down the counter a ways, N'thei is off-loading one with a slightly less dismal air. "Could get you some at a fair price if you're looking to go that route," he remarks with a heartless-seeming shrug at the watery-eyed old woman. "Otherwise, best settle in for a long, dry winter, mum."
Isziyo is here, chained to the tub of dirty dishes. Any close to the towering candidate could potentially hear the low, rumbling mumble of a tuneless hum. Hey, he's not bothering anyone, he's not looking to do anything other than his chores, and he's most /certainly/ not looking over at the drama happening a short way down from him regarding N'thei and the cook. Nope. Not at all. He knows his place. And so the young man stands, rinsing a load of freshly-scrubbed plates with fresh water. His eyes stay downturned on his job, focused in on his task.
Gr'kaif, at least, doesn't barge straight into the middle of everything at once, but he is watching the unloading process with blatant curiosity as he roams around the kitchens with his usual routine of flirting, swiping food, and mostly getting in the way of good people trying to actually do their jobs. People like Isziyo. The greenrider hops up on the counter right near the dishwashing candidate, leans over to wonder without lowering his voice, "What's going on now?"
It's going on here and there throughout the kitchen-- what's left of the High Reaches tithe getting stowed here and there, unpacked from crates into cupboards and pantries or carried in to the storerooms. The woman goes on to bemoan the loss of all that brandy in a bothersome, blubbery way until N'thei, who apparently is not going to get any money out of this venture, takes his crate elsewhere. "Off," to Gr'kaif in lieu of a greeting, coming to stop about six feet from where the greenrider's gone and availed himself of the countertop. The candidate... well, maybe he can't recognize the kid from the back or something. Since he's not immediately trying to punch him in the head.
Isziyo compresses his lips together, perhaps the only sign of his displeasure at being so obvious questioned. He gazes askance at Gr'kaif, and then bobs his head in an approximation of a salute. His hands are a bit busy currently, y'see. "I'm not sure, sir," Isz replies, his deep bass rumble polite. He doesn't turn when he hears N'thei close on his position, simply shifts to stack clean dishes in the drying hamper.
So unceremonious is that greeting, that Gr'kaif pouts for a moment at being removed from his seat. But he obligingly slides back down, with a put-upon sigh; and when he scoots over, stepping out of N'thei's way, it's only to get into Isziyo's, invading the candidate's personal space to make room for the rider. "Oh, 'scuse me," he says, not very apologetic at all as he flashes a winning grin up at Isziyo. "Don't mind me here."
N'thei's effing-greenriders remark is far from subtle, his voice lowered only because muttering the comment gives it just the right amount of derisive inflection. In the space previously occupied by the aforementioned effing-greenrider, he drops his crate with a promising clink of earthenware-and-glass, with a sideways look at the dishwashing candidate. "Milani hasn't got you lot unpacking things?" he asks doubtfully, itching to catch one of the aptly dubbed Little Bastards stepping out of line.
Isziyo glances down at Gr'kaif, his expression neutral. "Of course not," he states, the tone completely bland as he carefully maneuvers himself to lift a stack of dirty dishes up from one side of the greenrider and pivot to place them in the trough of soapy water. "Just don't yell at me if I accidentally jab you with an elbow." Maybe Isz is just used to being utilized as a shield against N'thei. That would explain the tolerance level he's displaying. The candidate gives a brief glance to said bronzerider, and gives a low noise, nearly a grunt. "No, sir. She told me to keep washing dishes until she told me otherwise, sir," comes the placid reply. He is working rather diligently at said dishes, and the stack of dirty ones is impressive. Well, go figure. Isz is the only one left to wash them, and while he's efficent, he's only one person.
Gr'kaif heard that! Not that he seems to mind. He just smirks at N'thei in return, though after a moment his eyes flick back to Isziyo. "No elbowing now, I might start to think you don't want me around," he chides the candidate, still amused rather than dissuaded. And he stays right there, in the way, even when he looks back to N'thei. "So this is it?" he asks, with a nod at the crate, a tip of his head to indicate the others scattered around.
"You can sock him. Won't tell anyone." There's no indication whether he's talking to Gr'kaif or Isziyo for that one, seeing as N'thei's preoccupied putting some jars of spices and stuff up on shelves where there's no way in hell anyone who habitually works in the kitchens-- dishwashing candidates aside-- are ever going to reach them. "Not all of it," he answers for Gr'kaif, pushing a couple more items on to the shelf before the crate is empty. "Some went straight to stores, and the rest went..." Open hands, clueless shrug; where the rest of that tithe went really is the million dollar question, isn't it.
"No, sir, wouldn't want that," Isziyo replies to Gr'kaif in that same quiet tone that is his standard. His gaze darts over towards N'thei at the bronzerider's statement, and his lips curve into a faint smirk at the word - presumably he's deciding that it was stated towards him. And still he scrubs, scrub-a-dub-dub, merely listening to the conversation about him.
"The rest went away," Gr'kaif finishes cluefully. Isn't he just so smart? And he leans one elbow the counter again, chin propped in his hands. "So what are you going to do about it this time?" No response about who's hitting and who's getting hit; probably, he can guess which end he's going to end up in, next to the two big guys.
Honestly? "Profit from you people being unable to take matters into your own hands." Leaning his head back, N'thei peers at the woman who's gone and collapsed her arms on the edge of a crate that is entirely bereft of liquid courage, straightens back up to drag his own crate off the counter and let it hang from one hand. "Know anyone as needs ale at a fair price?" To either of them, with a salesman-smile that seems weird. Given it's N'thei and any smile, particularly an almost-nice-looking-one, doesn't fit.
Isziyo snorts in amusement, the sound faint. He shifts a gaze over towards N'thei, expressionless, just in time to see that smile. If it creeps Isz out, the young man doesn't show it. He clears his throat, however. "Sir, if you'll excuse me, I do need to be where you are at," he directs at Gr'kaif, gesturing at the fact that the clean-water tub is over on the greenrider's side of where Isz is standing.
"Gr'kaif," the greenrider corrects at once, not standing on such formalities as 'sir.' Instead, he'll stand on N'thei, sort of: when Isziyo needs to get where he is, Gr'kaif scoots over toward the bronzerider to get all up in /his/ business this time. After all, he's smiling, right? Right? "I could maybe talk up some friends of mine, maybe..." Gr'kaif suggests slowly. "But... you aren't going to play at hero again? You and A'son and--oh, well, not the old man this time; he knocked himself off."
Difference being, when N'thei's personal space is invaded, he will just go off someplace where there aren't any effing-greenriders to annoy him. Like toward that old woman, to take the crate away, leaving her to puddle tears on the countertop instead. "Which part of 'profit from you people' didn't make sense," he wonders in a paused moment, head tipped askew, a couple of bottles of-- hey! Cooking sherry! The old woman's all over that, liberating them hurriedly from N'thei's hands.
Isziyo washes dishes. This is what he is good at. Carry on. For the record, the candidate is dutifully washing his way through a titantic amount of dirty dishes, while Gr'kaif lingers in the general area and N'thei is doing... whatever it is that N'thei's do.
Chores aside, somehow, when Whitchek ends up invading the kitchen, he's always asking for the same thing: "Ice?" At least this time, it doesn't *look* like somebody's recently hit him in the face. "Can I get some--" Crap. If there's one thing he's learning, it's to be wary of any area sporting one or more individuals taller than he is. Softer voice, to one of the women, someone relatively safe: "Can I get some ice? In a towel? Please?" Let's try not to attract attention.
When N'thei moves away, Gr'kaif just pouts. "I was just asking! And I said I'd help. Maybe. If it was worth all my effort, too," he points out, with a sniff. "I like profiting, too, but not if you're going to be so touchy about it all." And he, spurned by the bronzerider, scoots back over into Isziyo's way again, though there's no good reason for it now. Not that there really was the first time, either, but.
In a rare moment of humorous cognizance, N'thei gestures with the neck of a sherry-bottle-- one that he does not let the grabby old woman take away from him-- toward Whitchek. "That's funny, isn't it. Ice. Reaches." Hah. Distracted, he totally misses out on Gr'kaif being all butt-hurt (which is the term he'd use if he hadn't missed out on it, just for the record), and concludes the subject with a simple, "Don't remember inviting you to partake of the profits." Anyway, having spread cheer and joy to all and sundry, he takes off toward the inner storerooms to unpack crates.