Amerie offers M'try pity-laced congratulations.
RL Date: 11/14/09
IC Date: 3/18/21
Lakeshore, Fort Weyr
The lake's shore is a broad crescent of golden-hued sand, stretching from the southwest wall near the feeding grounds and arcing toward the southeast and overlooking the blue waters of the lake. Where the lake deepens, that water turns a murkier blue-green, hiding an untold number of perils in its depths. It is an oft-used location for dragons seeking a place to sun or for residents and riders who feel a need to take a stroll; the sand is generally kept pretty clean and while there are no shells, there are periodic bits of obsidian and other volcanic stones to be found if one feels like picking around.
M'try spends a lot of time reduced to huffing-and-puffing these days, a far cry from holed up somewhere quiet and warm with pencil and inspiration. Just at present, while a few of his fellows are filing into the barracks without looking quite so dead to the world, he flops down in the sand, tossing his cap and mittens off to one side, unbuttoning his coat, landing flat on his back in a state of red-cheeked exhaustion. Being a weyrling is so totally way awesome.
Amerie has predictably spent most of her winter indoors, so is a sight rarely seen around bowl or lake, and therefore to weyrlings - especially one of the two most totally awesome brownriders in the world. But better weather and less mud eventually brings her forth out of doors, making a leisurly progress around the bowl, down to the lakeshore. A body sprawled on the ground would usually bring her notice; more so when it's one particular former harper - with arched brow and an expression somewhere between amused and sympathetic, "You couldn't pay me enough, I think."
Some reserve of energy lets M'try shade his eyes with one hand, to track the sound of a voice back to its owner before his palm flops back across his chest gracelessly, measuring the insistent rise-and-fall that continues while he seeks his breath. "At the moment?" he manages quite a few seconds later, squirming till he can get his other hand into his pocket, to turn it inside out with no more than a little flutter of lint caught on the breeze. "I couldn't pay you anything. Abject poverty and exhaustion are close neighbors, it seems." One big, studious breath later seems to get him on track for regulating his panting, but he's not about to risk it by sitting up just yet. "I think you must be a daydream. The real Amerie would be wise enough to stay indoors a few more weeks yet?"
Looking skyward critically, "I don't know. The reports from outside sounded promising enough that I felt I'd risk it. Though I /did/ in fact go out in the winter a few times." Given Amerie's interest in snow, it's likely a very few times, but it's something. "And I'll not ask how often I appear in daydreams." Approaching, she unwraps her usual matching shawl enough to have something to sit on, she finds a place in the sand nearby M'try, arms wrapped about bent knees as she looks out over the lake. "Congratulations. Much belated, but they are still sincere, for all I pity you at the moment."
M'try shifts so, with a tilt of his head into the grainy stuff that passes for sand along a lakeshore, he can see almost back to the caverns, distant and muddled as the view might be. "Did you? How far out, I wonder?" The quick trick at the edge of his mouth, like a smirk unformed, probably gives away his thoughts: two or three feet at most. She settles, he resettles, now with hands clasped behind his head and legs crossed at the ankles, giving all that fine blue sky its due reward of his half-assed attention. "Thank you, for all you pity me at the moment. This is actually quite an improvement, my current state. I nearly threw-up the first day, now I only lay out here and let the sweat dry and hope I catch the tail-end of that flu from it." Fake cough, e-heh e-heh.
Glancing from water to weyrling, eyeing that near-smirk; "Usually not all that far, but I went on a walk or two. When it wasn't snowing." Amerie's hair, after all, must be protected. Digging one shiny black toe into the cold gritty sand, "I hope, other than the obvious drawbacks, it's by and large a good change for you. Though the fact that this--" She gestures with a slender hand to M'try, just lying there, "Is an improvement makes me wonder. I would to my very best to catch the flu, to be honest. It always struck me as odd that they run you around all through weyrlinghood, and expect less after - almost as if it's a rite of passage."
"Do we count so few as a dozen steps as a walk? Really?" M'try laughs off the expectation of an answer, though, amusing himself with his assumptions and happy enough for that. "I'm not unhappy, if that's what you're not-quite-asking. I won't say that I enjoy the whole of what it is to be a weyrling, but I wouldn't want to go back. No surprise, though, as I doubt anyone in history has ever felt otherwise." There's a shrug, half-lidded eyes following the gesture of Amerie's hand, and he admits, "I'm not quite sure what the purpose of all this running and throwing around bags of sand is, truly. I expect I'll be very fit in a few months, though, and you may say you knew-me-when at that point." With a snicker.
Loftily, "I have a winter coat for a reason, I'll have you know." But if he's happy enough with his assumptions, far be it for Amerie to dismiss all of them completely. After all, M'try's the one who's being forced to run around the bowl till lying prone by the lake. With a quirk of full lips, "I suppose as long as you wouldn't go back, I won't inquire too much after the 'not unhappy'. I'd imagine the running and throwing bags of sand has something to do with it?" As for the purpose, with a wrinkle of her nose, "So many things are as they are because they always have been, I think. And I won't hold my breath - though I admit, the idea of saying I knew you when you were in this state might be entertaining, depending on the situation."
For a reason, she says. "A very fashionable one, I imagine." M'try's grin does bloom fully this time, though he has the good sense to aim it at the sky and not directly at Amerie, so perhaps it can be mistaken as some amusement for the clouds overhead? "A great deal to do with it, yes. Rather like yourself, if I don't miss my guess, I was not made for this silly business of physical exertion. I'm in the remedial class, you see, with the chubby kids and the soft little holders' daughters." And amused rather than embarrassed by it. "But at least I don't have to retake history or grammar or mathematics. Please, feel free to be over-awed at any time."
Straightfaced - though with dark eyes bright - "Of course. A new one every season." Amerie's likely lying, right? At least she seems more amused than annoyed with M'try's grin, for all she hides it well. "And you are correct in your guess. I have had little need to bother with exercise beyond the little in my work, thankfully. Though the /remedial/ class, Maitrey." That does find a slight smile, even as she's shaking her head for it - then trying to banish it to look terribly impressed by his stunning accomplishments post-hatching. "I /am/ awed. I've met few men who end up in that situation, and fewer who will admit it; at least there's that." Dubious distinction, there.
M'try shakes his wrist out from under his head, a few pebbles scattered off the sleeves of his own coat-- which works, keeps him warm and dry, but fashionable it is not. Shoving his fist back beneath his head, he leaves that matter to speak for itself with a short, honest laugh. "When I overcome my humble beginnings and do something of great merit, it will make a tremendously good story, you have to admit. In the meantime, I'm unashamed of my waifishness. Some of us are meant to run laps and throw around bags of rocks in the bowl--" He pauses to impress a look upon Amerie, one that asks her to acknowledge the ridiculousness of weyrling exercises one more time, please? "--and some of us are meant to entertain and engage in classrooms and ladies' drawing rooms. Tell me." With a prop onto his elbow toward her; "Which do you prefer, Amerie?"
Dryly, "Humble beginnings, raised at Harper Hall." Amerie gives M'try a 'please' look, which shades into something more thoughtful as she eyes that jacket briefly. Then, mildly curious, "What things of great merit do you intend to do? Or have you not gotten to that part yet?" Crossing her legs at the ankles, she will incline her head to the brownrider - yes, she gets how stupid it is - but she has to admit, "Given I haven't tried the laps and rocks, I really couldn't fairly say - but I am fairly certain I would rather be doing /my/ work than /that/ sort of work. There's a end to it, at least?" There's a pause, before, "I was never very fond of drawing rooms, to be honest."
"Likely something foolish and romantic. It seems to be the purpose of young men, after all, and now that I can't simply expect a quiet posting somewhere with my pictures..." M'try, ever comfortable with the cards he's dealt. Head on knuckles, looking down toward Amerie's crossed ankles a moment, he adds to her musing, "Those shoes likely wouldn't stand up well beyond the first quarter-mile, either, though they're very fine looking." Clunking his own muddy heels together amusedly. "No? I would have thought, in your line of work, that you'd at least have developed a tolerance for them if not a liking toward them. Drawing rooms, that is."
"Mm. Well. I can't see how foolish, romantic and great merit necessarily go together, but I'll trust in your vision for now." Amerie is skeptical, however - as always. Brushing dark hair back over one shoulder, she follows M'try's glance down to her boots, lips curving into a smile. They are pretty. Bending to flick grains of sand off one toe, "I rarely wear practical shoes. I have shoes I can't wear outside. And..." The weaver has to consider her next, gaze shifting to the clouds before coming back down to earth, to the brownrider, "A tolerance, yes. An understanding for. A skill for listening in. But I'm there to work, not to chat, really - and that's the way most see it, I think. And when I was younger, I was the help." And therefore, beneath notice.
For her first, with climbed eyebrows, M'try asks, "You don't read much, do you? Fiction? Poetry? Which shouldn't surprise me, I suppose, but does anyway." And makes him sigh a little, ah well, while his attention remains on impractical shoes for a while yet. "No expectation of banter from a Weaver? You don't have to flatter the hand that feeds you? Lucky, lucky, lucky," to leave him with a sigh that is, this time, envious in an unauthentic way. "The Masterharper might have thought to employ tailors as his spies, though... didn't I make you for eavesdropping at one point?"
With a little shrug, "Every time someone lends me something to read, I find it perfectly awful. Perhaps I am borrowing from people with poor taste. And my apologies for being something of a disappointment." Amerie glances down towards M'try, own brows raised as she asks, "Is it such a tragedy? And banter, discussion - all depends on the client and their attitude. Some, I do have to flatter though I try to avoid doing business with anyone too high maintenance. With some, it's like I'm barely there." Too seriously, "How do you know the Masterweaver doesn't employ tailors as spies? And you seemed to think you had, yes."
"What do you /enjoy/ reading, Amerie?" M'try asks importantly, failing to look impressed by her efforts toward apology. "If people are lending you tawdry romances and you enjoy dry histories, I can see how they might not strike you as worth the effort." Her too-serious addition makes him laugh again, makes him resume his earlier posture with his hands laced behind his head, looking straight up to the sky, shaking his head in blatant amusement. "How do you know that I'm not just trying to get you to admit that you're a spy for the Masterweaver? My word, but you would be bad at it if you were."
Amerie isn't impressed that M'try's not impressed, but she has to admit, "I'm not really sure. Though tawdry romance would describe what I've been generally given, and I was not a fan." Big surprise there. "I've not had a lot of spare time for it until the past few turns - and even then, I seem to spend most of my time sewing." Something she's fairly comfortable with by now. With a smirk, "I would be bad at it if I didn't make much of an effort, yes. As far as I am aware, the Weavercraft is not in need of spies, but I could be wrong. There could be a need for dye secrets, or foreknowledge of advancements in fibres. One never knows."
Helpful; "Perhaps you should branch out some? Your knitting counter-point enjoys history, if I'm remembering correctly, and there are those who like adventure, poetry, even architecture and geography." Though M'try's tone for the latter two aren't really selling them all that well. There's another laugh, another nod, and he notes, "You're the one that implied the Masterweaver might use his tailors as spies, Amerie. I was merely pointing out that, if that were the case, it wouldn't be especially wise to go around telling people that. Least of all furtive little former-harpers who like to have an excuse to watch people."
Lightly, "Still time to pester people into doing things, I see." Even so, Amerie's not overly annoyed by it, though she does feel the need to point out, "I am aware of the various genres, yes. If I tell you I'll try something else, will you ask me about it later?" With a slight smile for M'try's laugh, she admits, "It was a joke - or a poor attempt at one. Though I really didn't think you needed an excuse to watch anyone, least of all women." She's quiet a moment, and careful in asking her next; "I hope things are well with your family?"
M'try's smile remains utterly unashamed. "Is there even a doubt in your mind that I wouldn't ask? The shadow of the figment of a thought that I'd just let the matter lie?" Though he smiles at Amerie's comment about his watchfulness, an expression that deepens to a grin to admit she's pegged him quite well in that regard, the clear of his throat afterward answers to her carefully put question. "I'm reconciled to my uncle. He came to the Hatching, even, and left almost as happily as if he'd been the one on the Sands. My mother writes me. But I think it will take meeting the beast that's stolen their son in person to make things right. Thankfully--" Here, the air of confession in amusedly lowered tones. "--I have some months to try to convince the beast not to act like one before facing this ordeal."
Dryly, "Sadly, no. And given I've found you with time to lie about on lakeshores until unsuspecting weavers nearly trip over you, I am sure you will make time to pursue various matters I'd rather be left alone." Given that Amerie has many of those, M'try could annoy her for years! With a flash of a grin for his own, her expression shading toward mildly apologetic for even asking, "That's something, that she writes you, certainly." And she's quite willing to leave it at that if he is, arching a brow for his last, amused. "Given dragons are dragons, I'm not sure what you expect - though the idea that yours causes you some difficulty warms my black heart."
"Did you nearly trip over me?" M'try strains his neck somewhat to give the impression he might sit up-- then quits that impression and promptly goes back to his long-maintained flat-on-his-back state. "I might have enjoyed that. Pity." Green eyes brighten at the mention of her black heart, and, around a grin, he points you, "I'd not look so smug if I were you, Amerie, or else I will invite him out here, and you may meet him first-hand. I assure you." With confidence and grim, grim humor. "The two of you would not get along."
With a smirk, "Not as nearly as you'd like, I'm sure. Thankfully. I don't think journeymen are supposed to appear to be assaulting weyrlings in anyway. And I don't think my dignity could handle tripping and falling down in full view of the whole Weyr. Even if you'd enjoy it." Embarrassment is /so/ not Amerie's thing. With only mild suspicion for brightened green eyes and grim humour both, "I am owed some little satisfaction, am I not? Just a little? And I've..." A little shrug. "I've only ever really gotten along with dragons who are as happy to ignore me as I am to ignore them. Those are rare. So you're likely right, though your confidence is slightly worrying. I suppose I won;t be asking for rides, then?"
With feigned disappointment, with a cluck of his tongue against the back of his teeth, M'try counters, "Assault? People would hardly think that of you, Amerie. They would think..." He trails off, lets the alternative assumption crystallize itself for the Weaver without his spelling it out. "You may ask any time you like. The question is more a matter of how often you would really like. Mohraith doesn't seem to ignore anything but peace-and-quiet." While he finally pries himself off the ground, all pebbles falling from the back of his coat, some to be brushed off the backs of his hands, a few that'll just have to stay in his hair till it's washed. "For example, he has now woken up and demands to know why I keep wishing I could wrestle with a Weaver. Shortly, this question will get so pressing that the entire barracks will be aware of it. Will you excuse me?"
Flatly, "Would they." Amerie is dubious - and one never knows. It's not as if she's a habit of rolling around with anyone in public. But still, M'try is likely right on that one. For Mohraith, the rather calm and quiet weaver nods. "Ah. I see. That's definitely something I may take issue with, but we shall see at another time." Lips curving into a smirk again, "We can't have that. Of course - and I hope that your days become easier sooner rather than later."
"Thank you. I'll hope, in return, that the weather stays fair so you may stretch your legs and find more poor lads to make feel ridiculously inadequate." With his tongue firmly in his cheek, careful not to scatter gravel on Amerie in his upward progress, M'try hastens to his feet and actually goes rather quickly once he's on them. Jogging, even. With a pained twinge at the corner of his eye. Mention was made of the totally way awesomeness of being a weyrling, yes? Yes.
IC Date: 3/18/21
Lakeshore, Fort Weyr
The lake's shore is a broad crescent of golden-hued sand, stretching from the southwest wall near the feeding grounds and arcing toward the southeast and overlooking the blue waters of the lake. Where the lake deepens, that water turns a murkier blue-green, hiding an untold number of perils in its depths. It is an oft-used location for dragons seeking a place to sun or for residents and riders who feel a need to take a stroll; the sand is generally kept pretty clean and while there are no shells, there are periodic bits of obsidian and other volcanic stones to be found if one feels like picking around.
M'try spends a lot of time reduced to huffing-and-puffing these days, a far cry from holed up somewhere quiet and warm with pencil and inspiration. Just at present, while a few of his fellows are filing into the barracks without looking quite so dead to the world, he flops down in the sand, tossing his cap and mittens off to one side, unbuttoning his coat, landing flat on his back in a state of red-cheeked exhaustion. Being a weyrling is so totally way awesome.
Amerie has predictably spent most of her winter indoors, so is a sight rarely seen around bowl or lake, and therefore to weyrlings - especially one of the two most totally awesome brownriders in the world. But better weather and less mud eventually brings her forth out of doors, making a leisurly progress around the bowl, down to the lakeshore. A body sprawled on the ground would usually bring her notice; more so when it's one particular former harper - with arched brow and an expression somewhere between amused and sympathetic, "You couldn't pay me enough, I think."
Some reserve of energy lets M'try shade his eyes with one hand, to track the sound of a voice back to its owner before his palm flops back across his chest gracelessly, measuring the insistent rise-and-fall that continues while he seeks his breath. "At the moment?" he manages quite a few seconds later, squirming till he can get his other hand into his pocket, to turn it inside out with no more than a little flutter of lint caught on the breeze. "I couldn't pay you anything. Abject poverty and exhaustion are close neighbors, it seems." One big, studious breath later seems to get him on track for regulating his panting, but he's not about to risk it by sitting up just yet. "I think you must be a daydream. The real Amerie would be wise enough to stay indoors a few more weeks yet?"
Looking skyward critically, "I don't know. The reports from outside sounded promising enough that I felt I'd risk it. Though I /did/ in fact go out in the winter a few times." Given Amerie's interest in snow, it's likely a very few times, but it's something. "And I'll not ask how often I appear in daydreams." Approaching, she unwraps her usual matching shawl enough to have something to sit on, she finds a place in the sand nearby M'try, arms wrapped about bent knees as she looks out over the lake. "Congratulations. Much belated, but they are still sincere, for all I pity you at the moment."
M'try shifts so, with a tilt of his head into the grainy stuff that passes for sand along a lakeshore, he can see almost back to the caverns, distant and muddled as the view might be. "Did you? How far out, I wonder?" The quick trick at the edge of his mouth, like a smirk unformed, probably gives away his thoughts: two or three feet at most. She settles, he resettles, now with hands clasped behind his head and legs crossed at the ankles, giving all that fine blue sky its due reward of his half-assed attention. "Thank you, for all you pity me at the moment. This is actually quite an improvement, my current state. I nearly threw-up the first day, now I only lay out here and let the sweat dry and hope I catch the tail-end of that flu from it." Fake cough, e-heh e-heh.
Glancing from water to weyrling, eyeing that near-smirk; "Usually not all that far, but I went on a walk or two. When it wasn't snowing." Amerie's hair, after all, must be protected. Digging one shiny black toe into the cold gritty sand, "I hope, other than the obvious drawbacks, it's by and large a good change for you. Though the fact that this--" She gestures with a slender hand to M'try, just lying there, "Is an improvement makes me wonder. I would to my very best to catch the flu, to be honest. It always struck me as odd that they run you around all through weyrlinghood, and expect less after - almost as if it's a rite of passage."
"Do we count so few as a dozen steps as a walk? Really?" M'try laughs off the expectation of an answer, though, amusing himself with his assumptions and happy enough for that. "I'm not unhappy, if that's what you're not-quite-asking. I won't say that I enjoy the whole of what it is to be a weyrling, but I wouldn't want to go back. No surprise, though, as I doubt anyone in history has ever felt otherwise." There's a shrug, half-lidded eyes following the gesture of Amerie's hand, and he admits, "I'm not quite sure what the purpose of all this running and throwing around bags of sand is, truly. I expect I'll be very fit in a few months, though, and you may say you knew-me-when at that point." With a snicker.
Loftily, "I have a winter coat for a reason, I'll have you know." But if he's happy enough with his assumptions, far be it for Amerie to dismiss all of them completely. After all, M'try's the one who's being forced to run around the bowl till lying prone by the lake. With a quirk of full lips, "I suppose as long as you wouldn't go back, I won't inquire too much after the 'not unhappy'. I'd imagine the running and throwing bags of sand has something to do with it?" As for the purpose, with a wrinkle of her nose, "So many things are as they are because they always have been, I think. And I won't hold my breath - though I admit, the idea of saying I knew you when you were in this state might be entertaining, depending on the situation."
For a reason, she says. "A very fashionable one, I imagine." M'try's grin does bloom fully this time, though he has the good sense to aim it at the sky and not directly at Amerie, so perhaps it can be mistaken as some amusement for the clouds overhead? "A great deal to do with it, yes. Rather like yourself, if I don't miss my guess, I was not made for this silly business of physical exertion. I'm in the remedial class, you see, with the chubby kids and the soft little holders' daughters." And amused rather than embarrassed by it. "But at least I don't have to retake history or grammar or mathematics. Please, feel free to be over-awed at any time."
Straightfaced - though with dark eyes bright - "Of course. A new one every season." Amerie's likely lying, right? At least she seems more amused than annoyed with M'try's grin, for all she hides it well. "And you are correct in your guess. I have had little need to bother with exercise beyond the little in my work, thankfully. Though the /remedial/ class, Maitrey." That does find a slight smile, even as she's shaking her head for it - then trying to banish it to look terribly impressed by his stunning accomplishments post-hatching. "I /am/ awed. I've met few men who end up in that situation, and fewer who will admit it; at least there's that." Dubious distinction, there.
M'try shakes his wrist out from under his head, a few pebbles scattered off the sleeves of his own coat-- which works, keeps him warm and dry, but fashionable it is not. Shoving his fist back beneath his head, he leaves that matter to speak for itself with a short, honest laugh. "When I overcome my humble beginnings and do something of great merit, it will make a tremendously good story, you have to admit. In the meantime, I'm unashamed of my waifishness. Some of us are meant to run laps and throw around bags of rocks in the bowl--" He pauses to impress a look upon Amerie, one that asks her to acknowledge the ridiculousness of weyrling exercises one more time, please? "--and some of us are meant to entertain and engage in classrooms and ladies' drawing rooms. Tell me." With a prop onto his elbow toward her; "Which do you prefer, Amerie?"
Dryly, "Humble beginnings, raised at Harper Hall." Amerie gives M'try a 'please' look, which shades into something more thoughtful as she eyes that jacket briefly. Then, mildly curious, "What things of great merit do you intend to do? Or have you not gotten to that part yet?" Crossing her legs at the ankles, she will incline her head to the brownrider - yes, she gets how stupid it is - but she has to admit, "Given I haven't tried the laps and rocks, I really couldn't fairly say - but I am fairly certain I would rather be doing /my/ work than /that/ sort of work. There's a end to it, at least?" There's a pause, before, "I was never very fond of drawing rooms, to be honest."
"Likely something foolish and romantic. It seems to be the purpose of young men, after all, and now that I can't simply expect a quiet posting somewhere with my pictures..." M'try, ever comfortable with the cards he's dealt. Head on knuckles, looking down toward Amerie's crossed ankles a moment, he adds to her musing, "Those shoes likely wouldn't stand up well beyond the first quarter-mile, either, though they're very fine looking." Clunking his own muddy heels together amusedly. "No? I would have thought, in your line of work, that you'd at least have developed a tolerance for them if not a liking toward them. Drawing rooms, that is."
"Mm. Well. I can't see how foolish, romantic and great merit necessarily go together, but I'll trust in your vision for now." Amerie is skeptical, however - as always. Brushing dark hair back over one shoulder, she follows M'try's glance down to her boots, lips curving into a smile. They are pretty. Bending to flick grains of sand off one toe, "I rarely wear practical shoes. I have shoes I can't wear outside. And..." The weaver has to consider her next, gaze shifting to the clouds before coming back down to earth, to the brownrider, "A tolerance, yes. An understanding for. A skill for listening in. But I'm there to work, not to chat, really - and that's the way most see it, I think. And when I was younger, I was the help." And therefore, beneath notice.
For her first, with climbed eyebrows, M'try asks, "You don't read much, do you? Fiction? Poetry? Which shouldn't surprise me, I suppose, but does anyway." And makes him sigh a little, ah well, while his attention remains on impractical shoes for a while yet. "No expectation of banter from a Weaver? You don't have to flatter the hand that feeds you? Lucky, lucky, lucky," to leave him with a sigh that is, this time, envious in an unauthentic way. "The Masterharper might have thought to employ tailors as his spies, though... didn't I make you for eavesdropping at one point?"
With a little shrug, "Every time someone lends me something to read, I find it perfectly awful. Perhaps I am borrowing from people with poor taste. And my apologies for being something of a disappointment." Amerie glances down towards M'try, own brows raised as she asks, "Is it such a tragedy? And banter, discussion - all depends on the client and their attitude. Some, I do have to flatter though I try to avoid doing business with anyone too high maintenance. With some, it's like I'm barely there." Too seriously, "How do you know the Masterweaver doesn't employ tailors as spies? And you seemed to think you had, yes."
"What do you /enjoy/ reading, Amerie?" M'try asks importantly, failing to look impressed by her efforts toward apology. "If people are lending you tawdry romances and you enjoy dry histories, I can see how they might not strike you as worth the effort." Her too-serious addition makes him laugh again, makes him resume his earlier posture with his hands laced behind his head, looking straight up to the sky, shaking his head in blatant amusement. "How do you know that I'm not just trying to get you to admit that you're a spy for the Masterweaver? My word, but you would be bad at it if you were."
Amerie isn't impressed that M'try's not impressed, but she has to admit, "I'm not really sure. Though tawdry romance would describe what I've been generally given, and I was not a fan." Big surprise there. "I've not had a lot of spare time for it until the past few turns - and even then, I seem to spend most of my time sewing." Something she's fairly comfortable with by now. With a smirk, "I would be bad at it if I didn't make much of an effort, yes. As far as I am aware, the Weavercraft is not in need of spies, but I could be wrong. There could be a need for dye secrets, or foreknowledge of advancements in fibres. One never knows."
Helpful; "Perhaps you should branch out some? Your knitting counter-point enjoys history, if I'm remembering correctly, and there are those who like adventure, poetry, even architecture and geography." Though M'try's tone for the latter two aren't really selling them all that well. There's another laugh, another nod, and he notes, "You're the one that implied the Masterweaver might use his tailors as spies, Amerie. I was merely pointing out that, if that were the case, it wouldn't be especially wise to go around telling people that. Least of all furtive little former-harpers who like to have an excuse to watch people."
Lightly, "Still time to pester people into doing things, I see." Even so, Amerie's not overly annoyed by it, though she does feel the need to point out, "I am aware of the various genres, yes. If I tell you I'll try something else, will you ask me about it later?" With a slight smile for M'try's laugh, she admits, "It was a joke - or a poor attempt at one. Though I really didn't think you needed an excuse to watch anyone, least of all women." She's quiet a moment, and careful in asking her next; "I hope things are well with your family?"
M'try's smile remains utterly unashamed. "Is there even a doubt in your mind that I wouldn't ask? The shadow of the figment of a thought that I'd just let the matter lie?" Though he smiles at Amerie's comment about his watchfulness, an expression that deepens to a grin to admit she's pegged him quite well in that regard, the clear of his throat afterward answers to her carefully put question. "I'm reconciled to my uncle. He came to the Hatching, even, and left almost as happily as if he'd been the one on the Sands. My mother writes me. But I think it will take meeting the beast that's stolen their son in person to make things right. Thankfully--" Here, the air of confession in amusedly lowered tones. "--I have some months to try to convince the beast not to act like one before facing this ordeal."
Dryly, "Sadly, no. And given I've found you with time to lie about on lakeshores until unsuspecting weavers nearly trip over you, I am sure you will make time to pursue various matters I'd rather be left alone." Given that Amerie has many of those, M'try could annoy her for years! With a flash of a grin for his own, her expression shading toward mildly apologetic for even asking, "That's something, that she writes you, certainly." And she's quite willing to leave it at that if he is, arching a brow for his last, amused. "Given dragons are dragons, I'm not sure what you expect - though the idea that yours causes you some difficulty warms my black heart."
"Did you nearly trip over me?" M'try strains his neck somewhat to give the impression he might sit up-- then quits that impression and promptly goes back to his long-maintained flat-on-his-back state. "I might have enjoyed that. Pity." Green eyes brighten at the mention of her black heart, and, around a grin, he points you, "I'd not look so smug if I were you, Amerie, or else I will invite him out here, and you may meet him first-hand. I assure you." With confidence and grim, grim humor. "The two of you would not get along."
With a smirk, "Not as nearly as you'd like, I'm sure. Thankfully. I don't think journeymen are supposed to appear to be assaulting weyrlings in anyway. And I don't think my dignity could handle tripping and falling down in full view of the whole Weyr. Even if you'd enjoy it." Embarrassment is /so/ not Amerie's thing. With only mild suspicion for brightened green eyes and grim humour both, "I am owed some little satisfaction, am I not? Just a little? And I've..." A little shrug. "I've only ever really gotten along with dragons who are as happy to ignore me as I am to ignore them. Those are rare. So you're likely right, though your confidence is slightly worrying. I suppose I won;t be asking for rides, then?"
With feigned disappointment, with a cluck of his tongue against the back of his teeth, M'try counters, "Assault? People would hardly think that of you, Amerie. They would think..." He trails off, lets the alternative assumption crystallize itself for the Weaver without his spelling it out. "You may ask any time you like. The question is more a matter of how often you would really like. Mohraith doesn't seem to ignore anything but peace-and-quiet." While he finally pries himself off the ground, all pebbles falling from the back of his coat, some to be brushed off the backs of his hands, a few that'll just have to stay in his hair till it's washed. "For example, he has now woken up and demands to know why I keep wishing I could wrestle with a Weaver. Shortly, this question will get so pressing that the entire barracks will be aware of it. Will you excuse me?"
Flatly, "Would they." Amerie is dubious - and one never knows. It's not as if she's a habit of rolling around with anyone in public. But still, M'try is likely right on that one. For Mohraith, the rather calm and quiet weaver nods. "Ah. I see. That's definitely something I may take issue with, but we shall see at another time." Lips curving into a smirk again, "We can't have that. Of course - and I hope that your days become easier sooner rather than later."
"Thank you. I'll hope, in return, that the weather stays fair so you may stretch your legs and find more poor lads to make feel ridiculously inadequate." With his tongue firmly in his cheek, careful not to scatter gravel on Amerie in his upward progress, M'try hastens to his feet and actually goes rather quickly once he's on them. Jogging, even. With a pained twinge at the corner of his eye. Mention was made of the totally way awesomeness of being a weyrling, yes? Yes.