[Maitrey] T'mic is the ideal customer.
RL Date: 9/2/09
IC Date: 8/23/20 --I did actually email this log to myself, but it lost a few poses, so I stole T'mic's copy. :)
Records Room, Fort Weyr
Dual entrances provide access to the Weyr's Records Room: the great doors that open out onto a short tunnel to the Bowl and a twisting set of stairs that descends from the Weyrleaders' Complex. Within the room itself rows of stone shelving are carved out of the walls and supplemented by free-standing shelving of dark, polished wood arranged in neat, well-lit aisles. Bright tapestries depicting scenes from around the Fort region decorate the walls, each with a glow basket in a sconce immediately above to provide light by which to see the details and to leaven the gloom that would otherwise permeate the chamber. Underfoot, a richly woven carpet in shades of pale cream to rich klah brown evoke in abstract, the colors of the Weyr, while a subtle patterning at its center replicates the fortification that is Fort's hallmark symbol. Even without seeing the contents of those shelves, one would know the purpose of the room, given the perpetual aroma of hides, scrolls, paper, books and ink.
A few small alcoves have been carved out of the stone and filled with desks and chairs, providing relatively quiet places for those using the records room to work without being disturbed. Immediately before the doors that lead out to the Bowl, several long tables are arranged to provide larger, communal workspaces. Scribes can find writing implements, ink, paper, and other tools of the trade in a couple of discreetly located cabinets behind the duty desk. This cabinet and the outer doors are typically kept locked when no recordskeeper is on duty.
Sometimes, even the best of harpers has to consign himself to the worst of work: copying. That's not to say Maitrey's the best of harpers, but you get the idea. He's all set up at one of the tables, some old-and-crumbling hides just off to one side, some new-and-clean ones in front of him. Ink, pen, incredibly bored expression-- except that last is just giving way while he leans back in his chair, peering around the edge of one of the shelves at something that is largely obscured from sight but seems to involve skirts.
While harpers aren't unusually found in the shelves and stacks, foreign greenriders are another matter. Breezily dressed for the weather out in the bowl and not the faint chill within, arms laden with rolls of hidework, Mic plops his burden down across from the young harper without so much as a by your leave. He does have a bright grin though, one that doesn't dim when he leans to follow Maitrey's gaze. "Hey - hope you don't mind." That's in lieu of 'this seat taken' and all the other polite dancing about.
What? Not that Maitrey's rude enough to say that, to utter so blunt a response, but that's the look that's written all over his face when he goes blinking back in T'mic's direction, the dropping of hides and stuff nipping his reverie in the bud. "I'm wondering," he answers a second or two later, recovering his composure with a subdued laugh, quiet enough that the librarian isn't going to come wrath-of-god them, "what would happen if I did mind. Next in line?" With his forehead lowered to indicate the next table over, where a far more formidable looking gray-haired woman is frowning at some ledger like it's done her a grievous harm.
Mic meets that faint laugh with a quick flash of teeth, likewise silent to avoid the wrath of the archivist. "Maybe not that way," he says after a second and a tip of his head toward the unhappy woman. "But I bet I'd get a lot more work done." Maybe he doesn't want to get work done, though. He certainly doesn't pack up and move on down the line. "Mic - T'mic. Green Aath's. Ista." With a shrug of one shoulder while the other hovers politely on the back of the chair he has yet to pull out.
More work done. "After you summoned the courage to sit down, I assume?" Quieter still, now meant to carry no farther than this specific table, Maitrey admits, "I hovered unsubstantially at the entrance until this table emptied rather than take the chair across from hers." The chair not taken earns a little wave of inky fingers, please, sit, and then those inky fingers start to raise across the table for a handshake. "On second thought," when they withdraw, wiping across his pant-leg instead. "Maitrey, who ought to start carrying a handkerchief, I think. They tell me I'm a harper." The 'Ista' part earned a twitch of brows, so surely the what-brings-you-here question is waiting in the wings.
"Wellll...," Mic drawls, one hand waggling so-so. But sit-sit, and he obliges, falling into the chair and scooching it in before plopping his elbows on the table. Not leaping into the hidework, then, not when he has a hand to shake. "Well met, Maitrey. Yeah, ink's not the sort of thing you can just lick off. --Wait. You're not sure you're a harper?" Do tell! "Paddy sent me to look for this information he used, back when he was Weyrlingmaster here. I think he might just be trying to get me out of the weyr, but it's not like he could send the others." Oh well, says his shrug. "You're... copying?"
"I experience moments of doubt. Sometimes, I think I'm a glorified babysitter they're trying to placate with a few blue cords for my knot. Other times, merely a way to waste ink." Maitrey gives his thumb, which has a particularly impressive smear, a brief sniff at the lick-off remark, decides against that with a short but serious shake of his head. "Assuming that you can't take the originals with you back to Ista-- welcome, kindred spirit. I am, in fact, copying. And occasionally nodding off."
T'mic's got another grin, this one leavened with sympathy. "Know how you feel, about the babysitting. Feel like that sometimes myself, with the weyrlings. Getting older, though, and don't need us paying such close attention to 'em anymore." There's a twitch of his own eyebrows at the thumb-sniffing. "Mmm, maybe? Probably not, though. Have to find the things first." Are they behind scroll number one? Scroll number two? Scroll number twelve? Lower then, voice extra-hushed though there's no one listening in, "Want me to nudge you if you do? Or should I cover for you if someone comes by?"
With his lips twisted, wry amusement, Maitrey comments, "Somehow, and pardon me for saying it, 'babysitter' and 'dragonrider' have just never-- come together before in my thought processes." Come-together with his fingers lacing into a basket in front of him, loosened a moment later so he can at least pretend he's paying attention to his pen-and-ink. "Would you? Nudge, that is. I'm not sure there's any way to really cover for that." But he commits some thought to it, brows a-knitted. "'Ah, no, he's a blind scribe and is actually diligently working away behind his eyelids?'"
"They're babies, when just hatched," Mic explains, as good-natured as if he hasn't said those exact same words eleventy-thousand times already. "Put that with sleep-deprived teens and young adults...." Tantrum city. Idly picking up one of his scrolls but not yet so intent that he actually unrolls the thing, even to peek at the title... "I was thinking more that the print was really small and you wanted to make sure you had it all." Including a demonstration, head down. Looking at the microscopic safety print. Makings of a good forger, and all. Head back up, another flicker of a grin. "So what sort of harper are you, if not the kind that adores copying?"
As T'mic hasn't yet gotten into the actually act of reading his scrolls, neither has Maitrey resumed the act of actually copying anything, though his pen hovers in such a way that he could pretend industry at a moment's notice. He even trails a finger down the page he's supposed to be re-rendering, like he's just about to find his place. "That works, right up till I just drift off..." With his chin lowering to his chest, eyes drooping closed in a demonstration of his own. Still feigning slumber, "There are no harpers that adore copying, sir. Such creatures exist only in fiction. I'm the stories-and-drawings sort."
T'mic repeats, "Really small print," squishing thumb and forefinger so, so close. Really close. Almost touching! "There you go!" Just like that. Looking at the fine print. "Really?" No copying-loving harpers? "There's this one I know...," but he waves off the rest, not that Maitrey's in any position to see. "Your own stories, then, since you don't like copying other people's? Or d'you... what's the word. Re-invent old ones?"
"Until I meet the creature in the flesh, I refuse to acknowledge his existence. No one enjoys copying." Maitrey stirs from his false-slumber at this, even goes to the effort of pretending to cover a yawn with his fingers flickering in front of his mouth, just a moment, just a moment. (Maybe it was real, after all?) "Ahh. Mmn. Excuse me. Wholly authentic works, sir, though there's that saying-- there are really only five stories in the world, and we just keep retelling them over and over. Do you read?" His eyes trip over the unused scroll, the smirk fighting with the edge of his mouth.
T'mic says, "Have to take you to meet him, sometime," easily. "After I've been to make sure I'm right." Barely suppressed amusement there, fingers stroking the edge of his hide. "Never heard that - but I was a... what's the word? Indifferent student. And I read," despite current indolence to the contrary, "Just not... I like a little more action than what's usually found in the records. Who tithed what, which formation to use when...." No yawning here, but an exaggerated eye-roll. "Got a friend who loves it, though. Maybe I could buy some of your stories for her?"
Amused; "Do you stack the deck when you play cards, too, or is that strictly for proving a point?" Maitrey gives the pages to be copied one further glance, the pen dancing aimlessly between his thumb and his forefinger in a merry waggle. "I generally attempt to imbue a little more action into my stories than tithes and formations. Fiction, sir, not history. What sorts of stories does your friend like, and I'll tell you if there are any of mine you can buy." Yeah, so much work is going to get done this afternoon.
T'mic leans back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. Working ever so hard, honest. Poor unloved scrolls. "Prefer to lose when playing cards, actually. Makes it more fun. And... huh. You know, I'm not sure? 'Ve never asked. Just - I know she's got books." Like some people collect china figurines. "What d'you write? I can ask her if she's already got some of it. Wouldn't be surprised - her brother's the one who enjoys copying. I think. So she's got an in to the Hall."
Maitrey points out with his forehead lowered but his eyes raised, pinned to the hands laced behind T'mic's head. "Subtle." Which compels him to at least make a better pretense of work, a finger gliding down the page he's supposed to be working, finding where he left off-- one hopes, since he does dip his pen back to work at that. "Not books, for starters. Some poetry, most of it bad. Mostly pamphlets. Not often purchased by women. Illustrated pamphlets." Cough.
"You're not my Weyrlingmaster," Mic points out just this side of laughter. What's he going to do, tell the lady at the next table he's slacking off? "Mmm, bad poetry. Probably not. Pamph...let? Oh, those little foldy-things?" Hands come back to demonstrate, thumbs lightly tapping together. Wait. What comes in foldy things? The greenrider closes one eye, squints the other, smile tugging and twitching at his lips as realization dawns. Hushed voiced and delighted, "You write smut?" Low voice or not, the grey-haired lady scowls over at them, about ready to shush. Loudly.
Maitrey's working! Look at him working! If anyone deserves to be chastised, surely it is not the dutiful young harper, but the lackadaisical foreign greenrider relaxing amid all this industry. A long few seconds elapse in utter silence after that shush, waiting for the woman to go back to her work and (hopefully) stop paying enough attention to catch muttered words. "I prefer to think of it as erotic fiction. Or at least give me the credit of calling it pornography." While he puts a precise little curl on the end of a word copied out of some invaluable chapter of Fort Weyr's history.
Invaluable records of how many pairs of socks gone through in a winter. Thrilling stuff. "Porn-ography, then," Mic agrees, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar syllables tacked onto the end, but keeping his voice obligingly low. Even if he's a slacker. "Well, never know, with Millie. I can always ask. What sort? Boy/girl? Boy/boy? Girl/girl? Threesomes? Probably buy some for Paddy, anyway." Strange sort of present for a Weyrlingmaster, isn't it? "How much?" And oh fine, he'll pretend to work, too, even unrolling a hide to pacify onlookers. There.
Maitrey guppies. A couple times, even, in light of that barrage of questions. "It's not exactly something I advertise," he points out carefully, very quietly. "Mostly it's geared toward the mind of the average male-- do you want to take a walk?" He does. And he stands up right then to help accomplish it, puts things away with the intention of returning at some point to continue his invaluable work, saying under the cover of shifting pages and scraping chair, "It's entirely too quiet in here to discuss this in any detail."
Aw, and just when T'mic had started pretending to work, too! At least he has the grace to look abashed when the younger man prepares to flee the ship; with another look over at the woman he abandons his own set of scrolls and hides, trusting that they'll remain when he comes back. "Sorry. Just out in the bowl? Or me and Aath could take you somewhere outside the Weyr, if you'd rather?" When the woman finally does check to see if they're gone yet he delivers a cheeky grin that softens her heart enough to lessen her scowl in return. Otherwise Maitrey gets an expansive wave: after him.
"Thank you, I'm sure just a nice walk outdoors and not in the quietest room at the Weyr will suffice." Maitrey spares a quick bow, apologetic-like, to the she-troll guarding the records room and, thumbs hitched in his back pockets, makes his strolling way out of the room with a sniff when the stale, dusty air exchanges for lovely, muggy air. "I don't, as a general rule, peddle my own wares. But if you really want some, custom is custom and I could use the marks."
"I never," says Mic once they're well away from the not-as-boring-as-he-anticipated records rooms, "Turn down the chance to get Paddy going. So what do you write? And if you don't sell 'em, what do you do with the things? Hand them out for free at Gathers? Slip them into trader's wagons?" Two more steps and he squints sidelong and up at the younger man. "Harper Hall know you write sm- porn?"
There. Out in the wide open bowl. Where anyone looking can just assume that T'mic has come to Fort and made yet another new friend. "I keep having this feeling that I ought to know who Paddy is, but I don't." Maitrey glances over, questioning, care to fill in? He keeps on walking, aimless but will probably eventually wind up toward the caverns. Where the wares are kept. "I sell them to a trader who sells them for me. Mostly fairly 'vanilla,' is the term, I believe? Occasionally things get more tawdry if I'm having a good week." He shrugs, trying to shake off the feeling that he's a little weirded out by the conversation. "Officially, no, but realistically-- old men, many of them too wrapped up in their work to have kept a wife, one or two who could spot my style at a hundred paces, someone must know by now, one assumes."
T'mic's a friendly guy, this is true. "Hmm - Paddy. P'draig?" A check to see if that's stirred any memories. "Weyrlingmaster at Ista, was Weyrlingmaster at Fort for, shells. About ten turns? But he left three, four, turns ago. Rides brown Jekzith. My weyrmate?" One of those ought to spark something, if anything will, yes? No? Yes? "I'm all for tawdry - but I'm a greenrider. Comes with the territory." If Maitrey is a little squicked, Mic's still all open body language and friendliness, hands in his pockets and everything. Just walking. "Huh. Guess that's true. Long as I won't get you in trouble, or anything."
No, but Maitrey ahhhs anyway-- so at least now he knows why he doesn't recognize this name that T'mic keeps bandying about. "Well," with a lip-pursed frown. "What sort of tawdry? There's something in particular you want, or you're just willing to take whatever I pull off the top of the pile?" The pile-- he squints briefly at the term, keeps walking diligently. "You won't. I'm fairly sure you won't, as long as you don't intend on telling everyone between here and Ista where you got it? I pay for all the supplies myself, and it's all done in my spare time. Arguably. Do you often just show up places and wind up purchasing erotic fiction--" Stick to the terms. "--within the hour?"
T'mic says cheerfully, "Top, middle, bottom - I'll take one of everything you've got. Well, assuming you don't have so much I run out of marks, in which case I'll come back later." Gourmand, not gourmet. There's a difference. Another quick look sideways. "Oh, you keep it quiet? Suppose you would, apprentice and all. All right, on Aath's shell, won't tell anyone where I got it. Not even Paddy." A jerk of his head marks where a dark green watches them from beneath the shelter of a large blue's wing. Must be Aath. "Nope." He doesn't go around buying smut. "But only 'cause I've never met anyone who writes it down before."
Seeing as he's figured out this much about the greenrider: "I don't have anything specifically for gay men, I'm sorry. There was only ever one friend at the Hall that had any taste for it, and he walked the tables last Turn." Maitrey trails off with an apologetic shrug, a what-can-ya-do glance down to T'mic. "And you needn't keep it so close to the breast, though discretion is appreciated. As I said, I could use the business, it's only that it is very much a side business, you see." There's a pause, a grin; "That you know of. You don't know anyone who writes it that you know of."
Straight (ha!) and to the point: "I'm not gay." Despite evidence to the contrary. Or maybe just assumptions. "Paddy calls it... uh... ommi-something?" His eyes search the sky above in case it's written on the clouds, or on a banner trailed by a passing dragon. No such luck. "Men, women, either, both. But I'll take your friend's name too, if he's still writing." See how catholic? He spots that grin, raises it to a beam. "That I know of," he agrees, accepting of the correction. "Mostly make up my own, you know? But it's fun when you don't know what's going to happen. The details, I mean."
Maitrey's forehead creases, not gay? But he said... "Ahhh, then that would make you the ideal customer. If only everyone's tastes varied so wildly. I admit to getting a little bored of writing the words 'soft' and 'wet' in every story. --He wasn't writing, only reading, he was the only one that had any interest in the not soft-and-wet stories." As in, the friend in question is gay, see. The part about not knowing what's going to happen earns a short but sincere burst of laughter, followed by him nodding along about the details. "I was going to say... How can you not know what's going to happen?"
"That's me," agrees ideal customer T'mic. "Don't really go for the harder stuff - you know, where one person says no - but I'll give pretty much everything else a try at least once." Another pause. "No animals, though." Back to this friend, and a quick frown of disappointment: not writing, boo. "That'd be something, wouldn't it? Only hard to write so the surprise didn't take over the whole story. I'd think people'd feel cheated, going in expecting one thing and coming out the other end and it wasn't what they got." A few more steps, hands still firmly in his pockets and not creepily reaching for an elbow or anything, and he asks, either hesitantly or cautiously, "You ever need... inspiration?"
"My one foray into said 'harder stuff' ended so badly that I gave up the genre." Maitrey starts to add something, but no-animals is quite enough to leave him blinking-blinking at T'mic for a few seconds, a few steps. The question's probably been posed to him enough in his life that he hardly reacts to it, even has a rehearsed response; "I'm a nineteen-year-old boy, sir. There is more inspiration in my head than will ever manage to fill my pages. Do you want to wait here, and I'll go and get my bag of tricks?"
Disappointed or not, T'mic only nods like he expected that response. "Sure," he agrees and stops immediately, both figurative and literal, he's just standing out here enjoying the day, la la la. Certainly isn't discussing porn, or making offers that could come across as creepy. "Here good, or d'you want to meet back at Aath?"
If he wasn't a freaking pornographer, Maitrey might have cause to get a little twigged by that. Or, as is likely, the way T'mic intended that offer and the way he took it are entirely different things. "I'll go and get my bag, and wherever you happen to be standing by the time I get back will work. And you might want to think about pricing, if I can suggest it? I really never sell it for myself." A shrug of lanky shoulders sends him ducking into the caverns, where he pretends to be a very nice young man with the nods-and-smiles routine.
T'mic sends him off with a, "Sounds good," and goes to find a bit of wall to prop up. It's a lovely summer day, after all, and there are plenty of people in the bowl to keep an eye on besides one slightly unkempt Harper apprentice. When the same apprentice returns the greenrider's chatting up a laundry woman a decade or so older than him, basket on one hip and smile lines crinkling her eyes. "...Him you say hi - and thanks for the news about Miara. I'll try and find her before I go." The laundress follows his gaze to Maitrey and laughs, leans in to plant a kiss on his cheek before heading off to hang up the wash. Maitrey? Gets another welcoming beam and, "Hey."
Maitrey stays a polite, circumspect distance from the pair during the whole exchange with the laundress. His bag-of-tricks is all contained in one leather portfolio, unbuttoned and untied but held closed against his chest for now. Off she goes, and he has to watch her go-- it's just one of those things he can't avoid, but his attention returns promptly enough to the paying customer. "You keep friends here, I take it?"
T'mic nods, he does. "Used to come over all the time, back when Paddy and I hadn't gotten together yet. Need to visit my daughter, too." Off-handed, that, while the other reaches for the portfolio. "I was thinking, about price - you know how much the trader sells it for? I'll buy it for that. Or a cut above what you sell it to him for. Whatever you think is fair."
Enlightenment plays second fiddle to the settlement of confusion into Maitrey's features, which blur briefly while he looks down at the portfolio. "If you'll pardon me asking, sir," he begins with a careful choosing of words, "you don't seem to have any particular trouble meeting people, and you apparently have a weyrmate? Lover? Why the need to..." The front cover flips open, a few loose pages are turned off into a pocket, and there's the pamphlets in all their discrete little covers, a stack some three or four inches thick.
"Weyrmate," Mic sticks in there, into that first little hesitation, but most of his attention is on the smu - erotic fiction. He lays one hand's fingers on the topmost with far more eagerness than those records room hides ever received, looks up at the author with dancing eyes. "I like sex." Of course. "I'll give these to Paddy, probably, and we'll read them to each other. Maybe try one or two of them out." ...Even the soft-and-wet ones? Does that bear thinking about? "S'what I meant about inspiration, if that makes sense?"
"Weyrmate," Maitrey repeats, full of that not-raised-in-a-Weyr hesitation over the term. He flips through a few of the pamphlets while speaking, apparently having them mentally indexed well enough not to have to hesitate over finding a nice little variety for T'mic. To answer the question: yes, it does bear thinking about. "I told you there aren't any guy-on-guy stories in here, I hope? But here's a few--" From the back, added to the slim selection. "--that are strictly girls, which are apparently in high demand. He usually takes all of those without question. That last one has some nice pictures, if you'll pardon the vanity."
T'mic doesn't repeat the term - four times in a minute is really stretching things, don't you think? But yes, weyrmates. "You did." No gay porn. "I'll take a couple of those," the strictly girls, "but I'd rather have the het ones." Mention of pictures brings a reminiscent smile; a moment more and he shakes his head, dispelling whatever memory. "Should probably just ask at the Hall for this, but - I wouldn't mind a picture of Paddy. If I brought you to Ista, told you where he was going to be, could you do some sketches? Clothes on, of course."
Referring back; "I don't know how much he sells them for, but I know how much I'd get paid for these. So let's say..." Some reasonable price. Probably quite reasonable for T'mic, since Maitrey's an artist, not a marketer, and can't be expected to understand things like mark-up. This shady deal bizarrely attracts precious little attention from passers-by, the majority of them probably just trying to figure out what that nice young man could be doing with a greenrider, how terrible for him! "I'm happy to have legitimate work," and really means that. Happy. Brightening smile even. "Do you have some idea what you might like?" Since that nostalgic smile did not go completely unnoticed.
This particular greenrider has to think through the math, fingers twitching, but finally he nods for the total. "Sounds good." Cheerful as always. He digs out the requisite amount of marks and hands them over, tucks the educational pamphlets under his elbow. "This is legitimate." Or maybe only a greenrider would think so. "And, um... not really? If you want to show me what you've got, then I can pick one to make bigger. And I'll pay you for the whole day, or whatever," he adds hastily. "Just let me know when's good."
Business really is easy if it's just about sex and not money, huh? --The marks get tucked into a pocket somewhere, and the pile of pamphlets get handed over with a last pat of inky fingers over the top of them, off to a good home! Maitrey chuckles quietly at the assertion and comments, "Even I don't think of it as legitimate, sir. It's a good sideline, and I like the work, but it's all business conducted on the sly, isn't it?" Closing up the portfolio with the public pages put back on top, he holds it folded toward the small of his back. "Did you want something candid or something posed? I'd rather not come across as some bizarre stalker spending the day chasing your friend from task to task-- not that I haven't done it before, but people do look at a fellow cross, I've noticed."
T'mic blinks, blinks again - it's not legitimate? - and folds his free arm across his belly. "Why on the sly? You're in a Weyr. --Oh," and he has it now! "You're an apprentice. Got it." So clever! "Candid - that's the one where he doesn't know, right? I'd rather one of those, if you can manage it. Paddy won't get cross. Besides, there's lots of people at a Weyr, even Ista, and the weyrlings are just starting to fly. So people like to watch that." And Maitrey is a people. What a fabulous coincidence!
Maitrey scratches the back of his neck, even scuffs a foot, and explains with a touch of chagrin, "Portraiture and pornography have a few letters in common and, aside from that, as far as the Hall is concerned, nothing else. One does not make a living painting chubby little holder children in a flattering light and then supplement it with--" He nods to the pamphlets, ends over a shrug. "I would be happy to have the work, sir. We can talk about pricing when you have an idea what you want. Think about things like size? Do you want color or are you just looking for a sketch? Paint? Pencil? And we can go from there."
"They're both pictures of people," Mic returns, honestly confused at the Hall's stodginess. But then again: greenrider. "Uh." Size? What size does he like? Both hands making L brackets with forefinger and thumb, he tries out a few sizes until settling on one roughly nine by twelve. "This big? Color's good - and you paint, you said? Something painted. Jekzith too, if you can manage it, but we'll see once you get started."
These are deals Maitrey's actually made before, and T'mic's sort of cobbled together version of what-he-wants leaves the harper smiling lightly all the while. "We're having a bit of trouble with paper, but I'll see what I can come up with. After I manage to get the sketch together, of course. Peruse the work, be sure you haven't committed yourself to an artist you don't appreciate." The greenrider has plenty of samples, at least! "For now, I better commit myself to that copying." Now, with his hands dry, he offers over a hesitation-free handshake. "Pleasure, sir."
T'mic says, "Just let me know when you can spend the day at Ista," with a quick smile to all those examples he has tucked under his elbow. Hand extended, he actually pauses in the middle of the shake, eyes going wide. "--And oh shells, those hides! Can you watch them for me for a little bit? I told Nanida I'd see Maira, so she's probably expecting me already. If I don't come back by the time you have to leave, you can just leave them. I'll try and remember to get back before I go home."
"Pick a day," is Maitrey's suggestion, flexible guy. Speaking strictly in terms of schedule. Nodding agreeably about the hides, another little chuckle escaping him while he turns away, the portfolio tapping against the small of his back while he walks, he heads back the way he came. And everyone kept their clothes on, so there!
IC Date: 8/23/20 --I did actually email this log to myself, but it lost a few poses, so I stole T'mic's copy. :)
Records Room, Fort Weyr
Dual entrances provide access to the Weyr's Records Room: the great doors that open out onto a short tunnel to the Bowl and a twisting set of stairs that descends from the Weyrleaders' Complex. Within the room itself rows of stone shelving are carved out of the walls and supplemented by free-standing shelving of dark, polished wood arranged in neat, well-lit aisles. Bright tapestries depicting scenes from around the Fort region decorate the walls, each with a glow basket in a sconce immediately above to provide light by which to see the details and to leaven the gloom that would otherwise permeate the chamber. Underfoot, a richly woven carpet in shades of pale cream to rich klah brown evoke in abstract, the colors of the Weyr, while a subtle patterning at its center replicates the fortification that is Fort's hallmark symbol. Even without seeing the contents of those shelves, one would know the purpose of the room, given the perpetual aroma of hides, scrolls, paper, books and ink.
A few small alcoves have been carved out of the stone and filled with desks and chairs, providing relatively quiet places for those using the records room to work without being disturbed. Immediately before the doors that lead out to the Bowl, several long tables are arranged to provide larger, communal workspaces. Scribes can find writing implements, ink, paper, and other tools of the trade in a couple of discreetly located cabinets behind the duty desk. This cabinet and the outer doors are typically kept locked when no recordskeeper is on duty.
Sometimes, even the best of harpers has to consign himself to the worst of work: copying. That's not to say Maitrey's the best of harpers, but you get the idea. He's all set up at one of the tables, some old-and-crumbling hides just off to one side, some new-and-clean ones in front of him. Ink, pen, incredibly bored expression-- except that last is just giving way while he leans back in his chair, peering around the edge of one of the shelves at something that is largely obscured from sight but seems to involve skirts.
While harpers aren't unusually found in the shelves and stacks, foreign greenriders are another matter. Breezily dressed for the weather out in the bowl and not the faint chill within, arms laden with rolls of hidework, Mic plops his burden down across from the young harper without so much as a by your leave. He does have a bright grin though, one that doesn't dim when he leans to follow Maitrey's gaze. "Hey - hope you don't mind." That's in lieu of 'this seat taken' and all the other polite dancing about.
What? Not that Maitrey's rude enough to say that, to utter so blunt a response, but that's the look that's written all over his face when he goes blinking back in T'mic's direction, the dropping of hides and stuff nipping his reverie in the bud. "I'm wondering," he answers a second or two later, recovering his composure with a subdued laugh, quiet enough that the librarian isn't going to come wrath-of-god them, "what would happen if I did mind. Next in line?" With his forehead lowered to indicate the next table over, where a far more formidable looking gray-haired woman is frowning at some ledger like it's done her a grievous harm.
Mic meets that faint laugh with a quick flash of teeth, likewise silent to avoid the wrath of the archivist. "Maybe not that way," he says after a second and a tip of his head toward the unhappy woman. "But I bet I'd get a lot more work done." Maybe he doesn't want to get work done, though. He certainly doesn't pack up and move on down the line. "Mic - T'mic. Green Aath's. Ista." With a shrug of one shoulder while the other hovers politely on the back of the chair he has yet to pull out.
More work done. "After you summoned the courage to sit down, I assume?" Quieter still, now meant to carry no farther than this specific table, Maitrey admits, "I hovered unsubstantially at the entrance until this table emptied rather than take the chair across from hers." The chair not taken earns a little wave of inky fingers, please, sit, and then those inky fingers start to raise across the table for a handshake. "On second thought," when they withdraw, wiping across his pant-leg instead. "Maitrey, who ought to start carrying a handkerchief, I think. They tell me I'm a harper." The 'Ista' part earned a twitch of brows, so surely the what-brings-you-here question is waiting in the wings.
"Wellll...," Mic drawls, one hand waggling so-so. But sit-sit, and he obliges, falling into the chair and scooching it in before plopping his elbows on the table. Not leaping into the hidework, then, not when he has a hand to shake. "Well met, Maitrey. Yeah, ink's not the sort of thing you can just lick off. --Wait. You're not sure you're a harper?" Do tell! "Paddy sent me to look for this information he used, back when he was Weyrlingmaster here. I think he might just be trying to get me out of the weyr, but it's not like he could send the others." Oh well, says his shrug. "You're... copying?"
"I experience moments of doubt. Sometimes, I think I'm a glorified babysitter they're trying to placate with a few blue cords for my knot. Other times, merely a way to waste ink." Maitrey gives his thumb, which has a particularly impressive smear, a brief sniff at the lick-off remark, decides against that with a short but serious shake of his head. "Assuming that you can't take the originals with you back to Ista-- welcome, kindred spirit. I am, in fact, copying. And occasionally nodding off."
T'mic's got another grin, this one leavened with sympathy. "Know how you feel, about the babysitting. Feel like that sometimes myself, with the weyrlings. Getting older, though, and don't need us paying such close attention to 'em anymore." There's a twitch of his own eyebrows at the thumb-sniffing. "Mmm, maybe? Probably not, though. Have to find the things first." Are they behind scroll number one? Scroll number two? Scroll number twelve? Lower then, voice extra-hushed though there's no one listening in, "Want me to nudge you if you do? Or should I cover for you if someone comes by?"
With his lips twisted, wry amusement, Maitrey comments, "Somehow, and pardon me for saying it, 'babysitter' and 'dragonrider' have just never-- come together before in my thought processes." Come-together with his fingers lacing into a basket in front of him, loosened a moment later so he can at least pretend he's paying attention to his pen-and-ink. "Would you? Nudge, that is. I'm not sure there's any way to really cover for that." But he commits some thought to it, brows a-knitted. "'Ah, no, he's a blind scribe and is actually diligently working away behind his eyelids?'"
"They're babies, when just hatched," Mic explains, as good-natured as if he hasn't said those exact same words eleventy-thousand times already. "Put that with sleep-deprived teens and young adults...." Tantrum city. Idly picking up one of his scrolls but not yet so intent that he actually unrolls the thing, even to peek at the title... "I was thinking more that the print was really small and you wanted to make sure you had it all." Including a demonstration, head down. Looking at the microscopic safety print. Makings of a good forger, and all. Head back up, another flicker of a grin. "So what sort of harper are you, if not the kind that adores copying?"
As T'mic hasn't yet gotten into the actually act of reading his scrolls, neither has Maitrey resumed the act of actually copying anything, though his pen hovers in such a way that he could pretend industry at a moment's notice. He even trails a finger down the page he's supposed to be re-rendering, like he's just about to find his place. "That works, right up till I just drift off..." With his chin lowering to his chest, eyes drooping closed in a demonstration of his own. Still feigning slumber, "There are no harpers that adore copying, sir. Such creatures exist only in fiction. I'm the stories-and-drawings sort."
T'mic repeats, "Really small print," squishing thumb and forefinger so, so close. Really close. Almost touching! "There you go!" Just like that. Looking at the fine print. "Really?" No copying-loving harpers? "There's this one I know...," but he waves off the rest, not that Maitrey's in any position to see. "Your own stories, then, since you don't like copying other people's? Or d'you... what's the word. Re-invent old ones?"
"Until I meet the creature in the flesh, I refuse to acknowledge his existence. No one enjoys copying." Maitrey stirs from his false-slumber at this, even goes to the effort of pretending to cover a yawn with his fingers flickering in front of his mouth, just a moment, just a moment. (Maybe it was real, after all?) "Ahh. Mmn. Excuse me. Wholly authentic works, sir, though there's that saying-- there are really only five stories in the world, and we just keep retelling them over and over. Do you read?" His eyes trip over the unused scroll, the smirk fighting with the edge of his mouth.
T'mic says, "Have to take you to meet him, sometime," easily. "After I've been to make sure I'm right." Barely suppressed amusement there, fingers stroking the edge of his hide. "Never heard that - but I was a... what's the word? Indifferent student. And I read," despite current indolence to the contrary, "Just not... I like a little more action than what's usually found in the records. Who tithed what, which formation to use when...." No yawning here, but an exaggerated eye-roll. "Got a friend who loves it, though. Maybe I could buy some of your stories for her?"
Amused; "Do you stack the deck when you play cards, too, or is that strictly for proving a point?" Maitrey gives the pages to be copied one further glance, the pen dancing aimlessly between his thumb and his forefinger in a merry waggle. "I generally attempt to imbue a little more action into my stories than tithes and formations. Fiction, sir, not history. What sorts of stories does your friend like, and I'll tell you if there are any of mine you can buy." Yeah, so much work is going to get done this afternoon.
T'mic leans back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. Working ever so hard, honest. Poor unloved scrolls. "Prefer to lose when playing cards, actually. Makes it more fun. And... huh. You know, I'm not sure? 'Ve never asked. Just - I know she's got books." Like some people collect china figurines. "What d'you write? I can ask her if she's already got some of it. Wouldn't be surprised - her brother's the one who enjoys copying. I think. So she's got an in to the Hall."
Maitrey points out with his forehead lowered but his eyes raised, pinned to the hands laced behind T'mic's head. "Subtle." Which compels him to at least make a better pretense of work, a finger gliding down the page he's supposed to be working, finding where he left off-- one hopes, since he does dip his pen back to work at that. "Not books, for starters. Some poetry, most of it bad. Mostly pamphlets. Not often purchased by women. Illustrated pamphlets." Cough.
"You're not my Weyrlingmaster," Mic points out just this side of laughter. What's he going to do, tell the lady at the next table he's slacking off? "Mmm, bad poetry. Probably not. Pamph...let? Oh, those little foldy-things?" Hands come back to demonstrate, thumbs lightly tapping together. Wait. What comes in foldy things? The greenrider closes one eye, squints the other, smile tugging and twitching at his lips as realization dawns. Hushed voiced and delighted, "You write smut?" Low voice or not, the grey-haired lady scowls over at them, about ready to shush. Loudly.
Maitrey's working! Look at him working! If anyone deserves to be chastised, surely it is not the dutiful young harper, but the lackadaisical foreign greenrider relaxing amid all this industry. A long few seconds elapse in utter silence after that shush, waiting for the woman to go back to her work and (hopefully) stop paying enough attention to catch muttered words. "I prefer to think of it as erotic fiction. Or at least give me the credit of calling it pornography." While he puts a precise little curl on the end of a word copied out of some invaluable chapter of Fort Weyr's history.
Invaluable records of how many pairs of socks gone through in a winter. Thrilling stuff. "Porn-ography, then," Mic agrees, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar syllables tacked onto the end, but keeping his voice obligingly low. Even if he's a slacker. "Well, never know, with Millie. I can always ask. What sort? Boy/girl? Boy/boy? Girl/girl? Threesomes? Probably buy some for Paddy, anyway." Strange sort of present for a Weyrlingmaster, isn't it? "How much?" And oh fine, he'll pretend to work, too, even unrolling a hide to pacify onlookers. There.
Maitrey guppies. A couple times, even, in light of that barrage of questions. "It's not exactly something I advertise," he points out carefully, very quietly. "Mostly it's geared toward the mind of the average male-- do you want to take a walk?" He does. And he stands up right then to help accomplish it, puts things away with the intention of returning at some point to continue his invaluable work, saying under the cover of shifting pages and scraping chair, "It's entirely too quiet in here to discuss this in any detail."
Aw, and just when T'mic had started pretending to work, too! At least he has the grace to look abashed when the younger man prepares to flee the ship; with another look over at the woman he abandons his own set of scrolls and hides, trusting that they'll remain when he comes back. "Sorry. Just out in the bowl? Or me and Aath could take you somewhere outside the Weyr, if you'd rather?" When the woman finally does check to see if they're gone yet he delivers a cheeky grin that softens her heart enough to lessen her scowl in return. Otherwise Maitrey gets an expansive wave: after him.
"Thank you, I'm sure just a nice walk outdoors and not in the quietest room at the Weyr will suffice." Maitrey spares a quick bow, apologetic-like, to the she-troll guarding the records room and, thumbs hitched in his back pockets, makes his strolling way out of the room with a sniff when the stale, dusty air exchanges for lovely, muggy air. "I don't, as a general rule, peddle my own wares. But if you really want some, custom is custom and I could use the marks."
"I never," says Mic once they're well away from the not-as-boring-as-he-anticipated records rooms, "Turn down the chance to get Paddy going. So what do you write? And if you don't sell 'em, what do you do with the things? Hand them out for free at Gathers? Slip them into trader's wagons?" Two more steps and he squints sidelong and up at the younger man. "Harper Hall know you write sm- porn?"
There. Out in the wide open bowl. Where anyone looking can just assume that T'mic has come to Fort and made yet another new friend. "I keep having this feeling that I ought to know who Paddy is, but I don't." Maitrey glances over, questioning, care to fill in? He keeps on walking, aimless but will probably eventually wind up toward the caverns. Where the wares are kept. "I sell them to a trader who sells them for me. Mostly fairly 'vanilla,' is the term, I believe? Occasionally things get more tawdry if I'm having a good week." He shrugs, trying to shake off the feeling that he's a little weirded out by the conversation. "Officially, no, but realistically-- old men, many of them too wrapped up in their work to have kept a wife, one or two who could spot my style at a hundred paces, someone must know by now, one assumes."
T'mic's a friendly guy, this is true. "Hmm - Paddy. P'draig?" A check to see if that's stirred any memories. "Weyrlingmaster at Ista, was Weyrlingmaster at Fort for, shells. About ten turns? But he left three, four, turns ago. Rides brown Jekzith. My weyrmate?" One of those ought to spark something, if anything will, yes? No? Yes? "I'm all for tawdry - but I'm a greenrider. Comes with the territory." If Maitrey is a little squicked, Mic's still all open body language and friendliness, hands in his pockets and everything. Just walking. "Huh. Guess that's true. Long as I won't get you in trouble, or anything."
No, but Maitrey ahhhs anyway-- so at least now he knows why he doesn't recognize this name that T'mic keeps bandying about. "Well," with a lip-pursed frown. "What sort of tawdry? There's something in particular you want, or you're just willing to take whatever I pull off the top of the pile?" The pile-- he squints briefly at the term, keeps walking diligently. "You won't. I'm fairly sure you won't, as long as you don't intend on telling everyone between here and Ista where you got it? I pay for all the supplies myself, and it's all done in my spare time. Arguably. Do you often just show up places and wind up purchasing erotic fiction--" Stick to the terms. "--within the hour?"
T'mic says cheerfully, "Top, middle, bottom - I'll take one of everything you've got. Well, assuming you don't have so much I run out of marks, in which case I'll come back later." Gourmand, not gourmet. There's a difference. Another quick look sideways. "Oh, you keep it quiet? Suppose you would, apprentice and all. All right, on Aath's shell, won't tell anyone where I got it. Not even Paddy." A jerk of his head marks where a dark green watches them from beneath the shelter of a large blue's wing. Must be Aath. "Nope." He doesn't go around buying smut. "But only 'cause I've never met anyone who writes it down before."
Seeing as he's figured out this much about the greenrider: "I don't have anything specifically for gay men, I'm sorry. There was only ever one friend at the Hall that had any taste for it, and he walked the tables last Turn." Maitrey trails off with an apologetic shrug, a what-can-ya-do glance down to T'mic. "And you needn't keep it so close to the breast, though discretion is appreciated. As I said, I could use the business, it's only that it is very much a side business, you see." There's a pause, a grin; "That you know of. You don't know anyone who writes it that you know of."
Straight (ha!) and to the point: "I'm not gay." Despite evidence to the contrary. Or maybe just assumptions. "Paddy calls it... uh... ommi-something?" His eyes search the sky above in case it's written on the clouds, or on a banner trailed by a passing dragon. No such luck. "Men, women, either, both. But I'll take your friend's name too, if he's still writing." See how catholic? He spots that grin, raises it to a beam. "That I know of," he agrees, accepting of the correction. "Mostly make up my own, you know? But it's fun when you don't know what's going to happen. The details, I mean."
Maitrey's forehead creases, not gay? But he said... "Ahhh, then that would make you the ideal customer. If only everyone's tastes varied so wildly. I admit to getting a little bored of writing the words 'soft' and 'wet' in every story. --He wasn't writing, only reading, he was the only one that had any interest in the not soft-and-wet stories." As in, the friend in question is gay, see. The part about not knowing what's going to happen earns a short but sincere burst of laughter, followed by him nodding along about the details. "I was going to say... How can you not know what's going to happen?"
"That's me," agrees ideal customer T'mic. "Don't really go for the harder stuff - you know, where one person says no - but I'll give pretty much everything else a try at least once." Another pause. "No animals, though." Back to this friend, and a quick frown of disappointment: not writing, boo. "That'd be something, wouldn't it? Only hard to write so the surprise didn't take over the whole story. I'd think people'd feel cheated, going in expecting one thing and coming out the other end and it wasn't what they got." A few more steps, hands still firmly in his pockets and not creepily reaching for an elbow or anything, and he asks, either hesitantly or cautiously, "You ever need... inspiration?"
"My one foray into said 'harder stuff' ended so badly that I gave up the genre." Maitrey starts to add something, but no-animals is quite enough to leave him blinking-blinking at T'mic for a few seconds, a few steps. The question's probably been posed to him enough in his life that he hardly reacts to it, even has a rehearsed response; "I'm a nineteen-year-old boy, sir. There is more inspiration in my head than will ever manage to fill my pages. Do you want to wait here, and I'll go and get my bag of tricks?"
Disappointed or not, T'mic only nods like he expected that response. "Sure," he agrees and stops immediately, both figurative and literal, he's just standing out here enjoying the day, la la la. Certainly isn't discussing porn, or making offers that could come across as creepy. "Here good, or d'you want to meet back at Aath?"
If he wasn't a freaking pornographer, Maitrey might have cause to get a little twigged by that. Or, as is likely, the way T'mic intended that offer and the way he took it are entirely different things. "I'll go and get my bag, and wherever you happen to be standing by the time I get back will work. And you might want to think about pricing, if I can suggest it? I really never sell it for myself." A shrug of lanky shoulders sends him ducking into the caverns, where he pretends to be a very nice young man with the nods-and-smiles routine.
T'mic sends him off with a, "Sounds good," and goes to find a bit of wall to prop up. It's a lovely summer day, after all, and there are plenty of people in the bowl to keep an eye on besides one slightly unkempt Harper apprentice. When the same apprentice returns the greenrider's chatting up a laundry woman a decade or so older than him, basket on one hip and smile lines crinkling her eyes. "...Him you say hi - and thanks for the news about Miara. I'll try and find her before I go." The laundress follows his gaze to Maitrey and laughs, leans in to plant a kiss on his cheek before heading off to hang up the wash. Maitrey? Gets another welcoming beam and, "Hey."
Maitrey stays a polite, circumspect distance from the pair during the whole exchange with the laundress. His bag-of-tricks is all contained in one leather portfolio, unbuttoned and untied but held closed against his chest for now. Off she goes, and he has to watch her go-- it's just one of those things he can't avoid, but his attention returns promptly enough to the paying customer. "You keep friends here, I take it?"
T'mic nods, he does. "Used to come over all the time, back when Paddy and I hadn't gotten together yet. Need to visit my daughter, too." Off-handed, that, while the other reaches for the portfolio. "I was thinking, about price - you know how much the trader sells it for? I'll buy it for that. Or a cut above what you sell it to him for. Whatever you think is fair."
Enlightenment plays second fiddle to the settlement of confusion into Maitrey's features, which blur briefly while he looks down at the portfolio. "If you'll pardon me asking, sir," he begins with a careful choosing of words, "you don't seem to have any particular trouble meeting people, and you apparently have a weyrmate? Lover? Why the need to..." The front cover flips open, a few loose pages are turned off into a pocket, and there's the pamphlets in all their discrete little covers, a stack some three or four inches thick.
"Weyrmate," Mic sticks in there, into that first little hesitation, but most of his attention is on the smu - erotic fiction. He lays one hand's fingers on the topmost with far more eagerness than those records room hides ever received, looks up at the author with dancing eyes. "I like sex." Of course. "I'll give these to Paddy, probably, and we'll read them to each other. Maybe try one or two of them out." ...Even the soft-and-wet ones? Does that bear thinking about? "S'what I meant about inspiration, if that makes sense?"
"Weyrmate," Maitrey repeats, full of that not-raised-in-a-Weyr hesitation over the term. He flips through a few of the pamphlets while speaking, apparently having them mentally indexed well enough not to have to hesitate over finding a nice little variety for T'mic. To answer the question: yes, it does bear thinking about. "I told you there aren't any guy-on-guy stories in here, I hope? But here's a few--" From the back, added to the slim selection. "--that are strictly girls, which are apparently in high demand. He usually takes all of those without question. That last one has some nice pictures, if you'll pardon the vanity."
T'mic doesn't repeat the term - four times in a minute is really stretching things, don't you think? But yes, weyrmates. "You did." No gay porn. "I'll take a couple of those," the strictly girls, "but I'd rather have the het ones." Mention of pictures brings a reminiscent smile; a moment more and he shakes his head, dispelling whatever memory. "Should probably just ask at the Hall for this, but - I wouldn't mind a picture of Paddy. If I brought you to Ista, told you where he was going to be, could you do some sketches? Clothes on, of course."
Referring back; "I don't know how much he sells them for, but I know how much I'd get paid for these. So let's say..." Some reasonable price. Probably quite reasonable for T'mic, since Maitrey's an artist, not a marketer, and can't be expected to understand things like mark-up. This shady deal bizarrely attracts precious little attention from passers-by, the majority of them probably just trying to figure out what that nice young man could be doing with a greenrider, how terrible for him! "I'm happy to have legitimate work," and really means that. Happy. Brightening smile even. "Do you have some idea what you might like?" Since that nostalgic smile did not go completely unnoticed.
This particular greenrider has to think through the math, fingers twitching, but finally he nods for the total. "Sounds good." Cheerful as always. He digs out the requisite amount of marks and hands them over, tucks the educational pamphlets under his elbow. "This is legitimate." Or maybe only a greenrider would think so. "And, um... not really? If you want to show me what you've got, then I can pick one to make bigger. And I'll pay you for the whole day, or whatever," he adds hastily. "Just let me know when's good."
Business really is easy if it's just about sex and not money, huh? --The marks get tucked into a pocket somewhere, and the pile of pamphlets get handed over with a last pat of inky fingers over the top of them, off to a good home! Maitrey chuckles quietly at the assertion and comments, "Even I don't think of it as legitimate, sir. It's a good sideline, and I like the work, but it's all business conducted on the sly, isn't it?" Closing up the portfolio with the public pages put back on top, he holds it folded toward the small of his back. "Did you want something candid or something posed? I'd rather not come across as some bizarre stalker spending the day chasing your friend from task to task-- not that I haven't done it before, but people do look at a fellow cross, I've noticed."
T'mic blinks, blinks again - it's not legitimate? - and folds his free arm across his belly. "Why on the sly? You're in a Weyr. --Oh," and he has it now! "You're an apprentice. Got it." So clever! "Candid - that's the one where he doesn't know, right? I'd rather one of those, if you can manage it. Paddy won't get cross. Besides, there's lots of people at a Weyr, even Ista, and the weyrlings are just starting to fly. So people like to watch that." And Maitrey is a people. What a fabulous coincidence!
Maitrey scratches the back of his neck, even scuffs a foot, and explains with a touch of chagrin, "Portraiture and pornography have a few letters in common and, aside from that, as far as the Hall is concerned, nothing else. One does not make a living painting chubby little holder children in a flattering light and then supplement it with--" He nods to the pamphlets, ends over a shrug. "I would be happy to have the work, sir. We can talk about pricing when you have an idea what you want. Think about things like size? Do you want color or are you just looking for a sketch? Paint? Pencil? And we can go from there."
"They're both pictures of people," Mic returns, honestly confused at the Hall's stodginess. But then again: greenrider. "Uh." Size? What size does he like? Both hands making L brackets with forefinger and thumb, he tries out a few sizes until settling on one roughly nine by twelve. "This big? Color's good - and you paint, you said? Something painted. Jekzith too, if you can manage it, but we'll see once you get started."
These are deals Maitrey's actually made before, and T'mic's sort of cobbled together version of what-he-wants leaves the harper smiling lightly all the while. "We're having a bit of trouble with paper, but I'll see what I can come up with. After I manage to get the sketch together, of course. Peruse the work, be sure you haven't committed yourself to an artist you don't appreciate." The greenrider has plenty of samples, at least! "For now, I better commit myself to that copying." Now, with his hands dry, he offers over a hesitation-free handshake. "Pleasure, sir."
T'mic says, "Just let me know when you can spend the day at Ista," with a quick smile to all those examples he has tucked under his elbow. Hand extended, he actually pauses in the middle of the shake, eyes going wide. "--And oh shells, those hides! Can you watch them for me for a little bit? I told Nanida I'd see Maira, so she's probably expecting me already. If I don't come back by the time you have to leave, you can just leave them. I'll try and remember to get back before I go home."
"Pick a day," is Maitrey's suggestion, flexible guy. Speaking strictly in terms of schedule. Nodding agreeably about the hides, another little chuckle escaping him while he turns away, the portfolio tapping against the small of his back while he walks, he heads back the way he came. And everyone kept their clothes on, so there!