[M'try] M'try has no mojo.
RL Date: 12/29/09
IC Date: 8/11/21
Herb Garden, Fort Weyr
The herb garden isn't only a feast for the taste buds, but a veritable feast for the eyes and nose as well. All manner of herbs -- from medicinal to the edible -- are grown here and tended to on a regular basis. The area is fenced in, separating it from the rest of the grounds around it, with a trellis arch over the gate leading into it. There are pathways made from bits of irregularly shaped stones that lead between the various plots and patches of the exquisitely aromatic plants, each section deineated with small signs to indicate what's been grown where. Others have been planted in pots or in boxes, though this treatment is only for those that can't thrive in the native soil.
There are a few benches scattered throughout the sprawling garden, providing places for quiet conversation or for gardeners to take a rest. Toward the southeastern corner of the garden is a smallish shack, which contains things such as clippers, baskets, watering cans and other useful tools.
On a warm and pleasant morning in the garden, there's a few workers busily digging and weeding and pruning away, scattered about, maintaining the neat rows. Notable by both her presence in the outdoors and the fact that she's the only one actually standing up straight is Amerie, walking the path along the section for dye plants with a sharp, critical eye and a purse of full lips; she has the air of a woman looking for mistakes. Weaver apprentices have /all/ the fun around here.
Now now. Weyrlings get at least a little of that leftover fun, though M'try's seems to come more in the version of necessary multi-tasking than getting scowled at by a journeyman-- nowadays, anyway. Holding a sandwich in between his teeth, rummaging in his satchel with one hand, carrying a mug that looks fit to be spilled with every step in the other, he legs it along one of the paths toward some of the pretty flowery sections, veering after a time to interrupt Amerie's lip-pursing with a muffled mumbly hard-to-decipher version of, "Help, please." Made muffled and mumbly by the sandwich, see.
There's a certain amount of noise that the weyrling's attempt at multitasking makes as he approaches - as such, Amerie has the pleasure of watching M'try for a moment or two before he issues the plea, one fine brow arching. "What's in it for me?" she asks, perhaps unsurprisingly - but some sense of pity or similar seems to win out as she reaches out to gingerly take the mug from him. The rest, he can sort out on his own. Attention drifting back to the plant beds, dark gaze flickering over them, "This is lunch? You look less... dead these days, I've noticed."
"Grattlemuff?" M'try might think Amerie can decipher that word as it is, as he makes no effort to clarify it once the sandwich is out of his mouth and into the now mug-free hand, only adds, "Thank you." That after he shakes off a few drops of what's in the mug, ale in case it matters. Now then; "You're positively full of flattery this afternoon, Amerie. I'm not sure I can take such high praise." There's a questioning brow-lift, a look at what occupies her attention-- implied curiosity for her task.
Amerie gives M'try a questioning glance for the sandwich-mangled word, but she's not overly concerned about it; what she is concerned with for the moment is an errant weed near her foot. "It's nothing. Though I think I'll need to put it down in a moment." Rather than bend over with mug in hand, she merely nudges it with the edge of her sandal, her toe. "Considering that you were recently lying about on the lakeshore looking, in fact, near death, I would take it as high praise. However, if it makes you feel better, you look well." Looking over to the brownrider, curious - does it help? - she explains, "I occasionally make sure everyone's doing what they're supposed to be doing out here. Preferably when least expected."
M'try gives the nearest one a sympathetic look while he remarks, "Always a pleasant experience for apprentices, the surprise inspections. I hope they appreciate the energy you're putting in to ensuring they couldn't possibly be out here simply enjoying the fine summer weather?" Perhaps to hasten his taking of the mug, perhaps because he's starving, he ducks his head a bit to one side and takes a remarkably large bite out of his sandwich, nodding along with Amerie's explanation for her, uhmn, flattery like that makes perfect sense now, thank you. In the meantime, he stops fiddling with his satchel to cope with lunch and conversation for the moment.
With a purse of lips for sympathetic glances, "/Someone/ has to do it." And thanks so much! Maybe someone doesn't have to take the sort of enjoyment that Amerie might be taking in busting people, but she has so little in the way of entertainment. "And is there a problem with enjoying the summer weather /while/ finding weeds?" Physically leaving the subject alone, drifting away from the plants and workers and towards a convenient bench that's just crying out for a mug of ale, "I'd ask what you're doing here - aside from about three too many things at once - but it seems obvious. You seem - busy." She carefully sets down the mug, glancing back to M'try to ask, "Does it agree with you?"
Content that he's made his point, M'try answers her first question with no more than a helpless-looking shrug; if she's happy, he's happy, and the apprentices are just collateral damage, seems like. There's another bite, taken and chewed and swallowed in haste to keep up his end of conversation, and he falls a step or two behind so as not to display the grossness involved in eating with necessary but unfortunate voracity. "Does it matter? There's not really a point at which I can opt-out if it doesn't agree with me, so either I'm enjoying it or I'm tolerating it, and they both work out about the same for me." He tosses some crust off toward a bush, food for birds or something. "--Have you ever made paper, Amerie?"
If Amerie has any issues with M'try's table manners - walking manners? - or lack thereof, she doesn't point it out, perhaps a concession to busyness and the aforementioned voracity that results. Instead, she'll take a seat on the other end of the bench, attention on straightening the skirt of her dress, perfection necessary even in casual wear. Crossing long legs, she admits, "You do have a point. I suppose it doesn't matter, but it would make life easier if it did. I rather hope it's working out better than not." Dark gaze following the crust of bread, bemused at the question, "No. I imagine you have?"
Of course, M'try gives perfection its due admiration, complete with a praising nod while he swipes crumbs off his fingers and only then comes for his mug, also to shrug off the satchel to a slouch next to the legs of the bench. "Actually, no, which is why I was hoping you had. Having no practical experience with it, I'm working off written instructions, and..." He pauses the business of drinking, of kneeling next to his satchel and consequently Amerie's knees to teeter his hand uncertainly in the air. "I'll have to keep you appraised of my progress, assuming you're lacking for entertainment."
Amerie smirks a touch for the nod, though to say she's not a little gratified by the admiration would be lying; she's got some issues with that, apparently. Glancing down to the satchel curiously, she has to ask, "Is the paper situation that dire or are you that bored? And no, paper's not exactly on the curriculum at Weaver." The fact that M'try's chosen to kneel right near her legs goes unremarked on, though she does arch one eyebrow; curving something close to an amused smile, "I'd never turn down entertainment, particularly in this particular form of masochism. Though, there must be someone at the Weyr who has /tried/ at least."
To be fair, that is where M'try dropped the satchel-- next to the leg of the bench which is next to the legs of the Weaver. It all goes back to Amerie putting his mug down on the bench, so it's technically her fault, and he's just an innocent pervert. Bystander. Innocent bystander. Speaking of; "Supplemental income. I haven't been as prolific as usual these past weeks, and I've got a weyr woefully empty of decent furnishings at the moment, so I thought I'd give artistic paper a go." Where his mug was, he now sits down a little booklet of instructions, nodding toward it. "I'm sure there must be, but they're not here, and you are. Plus, you know how I'm ever hunting for excuses for your presence." With the flash of a smile up at her, a practiced combination of adoring and bashful, likely useful for getting good marks out of stingy Masters.
Right. Innocent bystander. Totally Amerie's fault. With a purse of her lips, she picks up the little booklet to flip through it idly, interest only vague. "Prolific as usual," she echoes. "A shame. Particularly when one is short of funds or furniture. What have you been left with?" After a few more flips through the pages, she sets the book down just as it was left before, slender hand atop it for a moment before, "My point is that there may be someone out there with the required expertise that /can/ help. My realm of experience is somewhat broad, but not in that direction." She's another arch of her brow for M'try's flash of a smile, not quite buying it, but she allows, "I suppose excuses are needed when you can't afford the most likely ones."
"Or funds for buying furniture, as is the case." M'try liberates a jar and sets it on the bench next to the book, a few sheafs of stiff, flat hide, and then pushes up from his kneel, leaving his half-drained mug there with the rest of it. "There was a bed when I moved in, with red curtains draping it," and he glances amusedly to Amerie then. An odd hand-me-down, in his book. "That was all. I've since scavenged a few sub-prime article." A cluster of daisies is about to have the misfortune of meeting with his pocket-knife, the heads to be maintained carefully in tact even while he looks back with a mild laugh. "I know what your point is, Amerie. But, as you pointed out, I'm not a man of means, so I have to rely on cheap tactics to engage your time and energy. Which at least ought to merit the gratitude of the weed-pullers."
"I've never made a habit of owning much in the way of furniture to begin with. If I had any I could part with, be assured it would be yours, M'try." Amerie declares this with an expansive gesture, endlessly generous in theory. Glancing over at the recently liberated items before allowing a brief, amused smile for the red-curtained bed, she notes dryly, "Very you, no doubt. And sub-prime. That sounds /lovely/." Letting one of her sandals slip from her foot to press toes into the dirt, attention shifting to the soon-to-be-decapitated daisies, "If you are perhaps hoping that I'll tell you that excuses are unnecessary - I can at least say that cheap tactics are a little sad, and that I've never minded our conversations in the past." Without the usual qualifications, it might amount to something near the same thing.
"What I /hope/ and what I /expect/ very rarely coincide," M'try admits with flippant candor, honest but careless about it, now starting a little pile of clipped daisies. Which would make a lovely bouquet if their fate wasn't already decided, so at least Amerie needn't worry about romantic overtures of the floral variety? "I'm comfortable with 'a little sad,'" he adds cheerfully, shrugging casually over the designation, taking an open look at pretty toes in the process. Just to prove the point.
Enlightened for that admission, Amerie tells M'try, "That seems like setting yourself up for constant disappointment. Which, honestly, makes some sense. But it still doesn't make much sense to hope for something different than what is expected." At least, it doesn't make sense in the weaver's world. Watching the daisy pile's creation without any apparent concerns about possible bouquets, with some little resignation for both complacence and toe-ogling, "You would be. Are you comfortable with that as a general label, or only in regards to this situation?"
Dubious; "Doesn't it? Is 'realistic' such a pleasant state to be in that 'hopeful' looks bad by comparison?" Narrowing his eyes a moment doubtfully, M'try shakes his head to deny the suggestion and sits back, palms-to-grass, feigning no occupation for a moment other than watching Amerie. Since she's so okay with it. "Which one do you think is the answer to that question?" he asks after her last, kicking out his legs in a floppy way so his heels hit the ground audibly.
With an arch of eyebrows, "Who expects life to be pleasant?" A dark little smile surfaces on Amerie's lips briefly, before, "I don't fault anyone nor try to deny anyone their optimism. I prefer to expect the usual." Though she's somewhat resigned to being looked at, the weaver is hardly entirely comfortable with it at close quarters; though she doesn't quite colour, she does look past M'try to unfortunate apprentices. After a flicker of a glance back at the heavy sound of heels on dirt, she considers a short time before, "Neither."
"Romantic fools?" M'try guesses at her first question, a grin slow to spread while the next guess dawns on him. "Harpers? Might be synonymous, thinking about it." Briefly, a glance follows Amerie toward the apprentices, just checking out what she's checking out, then he's right back to paying attention to her in a totally unabashed way. Don't put things on display if she doesn't want them viewed! "Really neither or just a perverse neither since I sent your own question back at you?" And, before he has to deal with quid pro quo-- "Because I think it's a perverse neither."
"Fools," Amerie echoes. "Indeed. I'll refrain from casting aspersions on other crafts, however." The apprentices are doing their job - if they could be doing it it resentfully, there's likely a couple that are. Dark gaze still on them, but distant, she notes unnecessarily, "I don't expect much, I'm rarely disappointed. I'm often right." Maybe that has more to do with it than the others. Shifting her attention back to M'try - and attempting to seem unaffected by being watched - she offers with apparent honesty, "If it were a perverse neither, I wouldn't think about it. Really neither."
There's a few seconds of pause and then, "Much." M'try lingers the word, spends time comparing its existence to the person that spoke it, green eyes narrowing intently over his contemplation. "I want to ask what you expect, Amerie, but I keep thinking that the answer will only leave me feeling deflated, so perhaps I'll skip it." Not without a sigh, deflating himself to some extent. "You can tell me to stop staring if you want to," he points out from behind a renewed merriness, a slight smile coming back to him. "I won't be offended, but I also won't do it on my own."
Sliding her foot back into her sandal, regarding it for a moment, "Deflated. Why? I expect people to act in their own self-interest, primarily. Everything else comes from there." Amerie's cheeks do eventually flush a little beneath dark skin, but it's not until M'try is so helpful with his suggestions; with a flat dark look for the brownrider, "I didn't think you were capable of listening. Looking is one thing, /staring/ is quite another. Do you always do that sort of thing specifically to annoy people? If so, I can see why you do need the cheap tactics."
M'try doesn't say anything about Amerie's expectations, but he lifts one hand off the grass and extends it slightly in her direction, fingers dipped, the gesture for 'there you have it.' Shaking his head, amused as much as he is unsurprised, he plops his hand back down and is thus able to meet her dark look with a light one, a smiling one. "Do you think I'm doing it specifically to annoy you? I'm not," and isn't defensive about it, just entertained, "but it's interesting that you think so."
Amerie doesn't love that she's so entertaining, by her expression - but it passes quickly enough, schooled behind something more neutral as she rearranges her skirt idly. "You think differently," she states, rather than guesses before looking up to M'try again, dark eyes faintly bemused. Slowly, "That's a default assumption with people who have seemed to enjoy pestering me in the past. I apologize for assuming incorrectly, then? Though it doesn't really change my level of comfort with staring."
Yes, M'try thinks differently, and he nods to acknowledge the fact, but he's not keen to pursue the philosophical issue any further. There are easier, potentially more productive threads of conversation to unravel, and he sticks to that line instead. "I don't enjoy pestering you, per se," he counters airily. "I just seem to have a knack for it, or perhaps you're simply predisposed to being pestered. Either way." Shrug. "All the effort you put in to looking as lovely as possible, and you don't enjoy the fruits of your labors? It's a tree falling in the woods, Amerie. Is something beautiful if no one appreciates it?"
The chances of said conversational threads becoming all that productive with Amerie may seem slim, but the plus side is it's somewhat less depressing! With faint, put-on surprise for M'try's supposed lack of enjoyment in irritating her, she does have to admit, "I am easily annoyed. You have a point in that." As for the time and effort that goes into being her, "It's necessary to business. I can't see doing the kind of work that I do if I didn't look perfect." There's a pause before she can add, a bit more quietly, "Other than that, I don't do this for other people. I do this for myself. Attention comes along with it."
"Then we're both in the business of beauty. You look lovely, I attempt to reproduce it." M'try smiles winningly then, as though he's made a brilliant leap of logic and is quite proud of himself for it, an expression that leads into a quieter smile to match her quieter addition. "I'm sorry if it bothers you," he says authentically, finally lets his attention wander back to his decapitated daisies so they can be flattened out, presumably for some paper-making purpose and not just because he's a floral vivisectionist. "But you do your work well. You are beautiful." With a devotion that daisies surely don't deserve, though that's where he's looking at the moment, "And I am enamored. --Perils of the profession." That last with a quickly found cheekiness.
Amerie gives a nod of agreement for winning smile, though she feels she must amend, "I try to make the world more beautiful, to be honest. It's just that some of the world takes a bit more work than others." It's the most positive spin she's put on her work to date, and she does seem quite serious about it. Allowing her gaze to shift M'try's way only after she's felt his move away, she gives a shrug. "It bothers me, but I wonder that it should. I manage through the gathers, but it sees different when - there's less people." His words might have been enough to prolong the flush to her cheeks, but it's the way he looks at the daisies when he speaks that does it this time; lightly, "Thank you. I am flattered, though I seem to recall that there's many women you're enamored of, at one time or another. Perils of the profession indeed."
At 'some of the world,' M'try can't help looking around at this particular corner of the world with brightening eyes. Not a word. "I can respect that. It's easier to suffer the attention of a thousand people than one in particular," he agrees in a been-there-done-that tone, his frown meant for a posey that keeps bowing its head in a highly unflattering way. That one, he tosses back to a shallow grave beneath the daisy-bush. "Ah," with a quick contradiction. "I've pared back the number considerably. I'm down to--" Four fingers. Five. A slow six. The surrender to just fluttering all ten of them and then shoving them back to sorting flowers. "Point being, I have limited time for paying homage these days. Yet I still worship at your shrine. I hope you appreciate the gravity of this compliment." To match Amerie's light tone.
Sadly, "You can't dress everyone." More's the pity, in Amerie's mind; "If you could, things might be horrible at times, but at least everyone would look fabulous. And I suppose it is easier - a large group, you can ignore. Someone who's sitting right in front of you..." She gestures towards M'try. Less so. Nodding slowly as she is so corrected, the rapid increase of fingers has her smirking, and she has to repeat, "/Considerably/. Well, I'm impressed at your resolve, and am honoured that you continue to make the pilgrimage. In hopes of what, I wonder."
Honestly? "I wonder the same thing sometimes. I like to think it's merely an appreciation for a beautiful woman, the luxury of being in the presence of someone so lovely, et cetera." But M'try's back to leaning on his hands for a moment, suffering Amerie to the scrutiny of a glance once more, allowing his smile to spread slowly and thoroughly. "I like to think that. But let's be truthful. I'm male, I'm twenty, I'm perhaps unhealthily preoccupied with sex, and you haven't hit me. Yet. The writing is on the metaphorical walls." Playing with posies: euphemism #1,657.
With something close to a smile, glancing back towards the caverns, "There are not a lack of beautiful women to appreciate at Fort, I am sure you have noticed." Amerie certainly has; beautiful women need equally beautiful dresses at some point in their lives. Dark gaze sliding back over to M'try, taking in that smile with the perfect arch of one fine brow, the weaver almost looks faintly apologetic for a beat before it's gone as she glances away again - hey look, daisies. Evenly, "I don't hit people, so there's that at least." That's the good news! The bad news... "I... don't really sleep with people either. In the spirit of being truthful."
With amused slowness, M'try answers, "The thought did occur to me, yes." That there are an inordinate number of attractive women at Fort Weyr, he means. Which begs the question of why he's not been so prolific these last weeks, but that's another matter entirely. "Comforting," to her first. "My lack of bumps and bruises appreciates that." He knuckles beneath a scruffy but very likely glass jaw, finds a shrug to answer Amerie's bad news without her same necessity for looking elsewhere; this particular candor costs him so little effort that he can actually maintain eye contact, good for him. "If it makes you feel better, Amerie, neither do I. Which I'm guessing accounts for the reason that we both have half a hundred ways to keep ourselves occupied." With a daisy stem, he points to her henpecked apprentices. "Behold, distractions."
Thoughtfully, on a slight detour, "I wonder why that is. Not that I mind, more clothes to make, but..." Amerie trails off with her own diffident shrug after - then lifting a fist that doesn't look as if it could do a ton of damage, looking between it and M'try, amused. "Somehow, I doubt that you'd be too battered. I'm better with my scissors and needles." Any kind of serious honesty on the weaver's part seems to cost some little effort; though she's a faint smile for the presentation of Exhibit A, she seems a little skeptical of his claims, merely countering, "I thought that was called 'working'. Furthering one's career. Making money. All good things."
Since M'try just never thought to look (copious numbers of hot) gift horses in the mouth, he doesn't even try to speculate why the pretty people have congregated at his doorstep. Instead; "Not! As comforting," he answers to the idea of scissors and needles, leans back on his hands as if he needs that little extra distance between himself and Amerie, thank you. "Six of one," working, furthering one's career, "half-dozen of another. You're here to oversee apprentices who very likely know exactly how to pull weeds without your assistance, Amerie. I'm out here pulling the heads off of daisies." With a twitchy press of his eyes closed for a second, it really does sound bad to him. "Exactly how much money are either of us making at this exact moment?"
With a gesture to her lack of sewing kit, or space for either weapon on her person, "They're not here." But Amerie might have made M'try think twice about knocking on her door in the middle of the night. There's a quirk of a grin for that extra distance, slipping away a moment later as she sighs, "They know /how/, yes. But they do have to be checked on every once in awhile - I'm partially responsible for them." And for criticizing them, but that's beside the point. Lips curving into a smirk for heads of daisies, she just gives him a look for his last. "What does that have to do with anything? I /could/ be working inside - I could give you a decent estimate for that time."
"I'm just making a point," M'try argues lightly, stays leaned back the whole time just in case those sharp pointy things appear-- regardless of her assurance that they're not here. Women are not to be trusted when it comes to peril! "Said point being... you argued that they're not just distractions, that they're some sort of professional advancement, some sort of capitalism. I--" He makes a point of crossing his ankles lightly, of looking especially comfortable half-sprawled on the grass next to the flowers he's deposed, of knocking his toes against the bench where Amerie sits all this while. "--beg to differ, pretty Weaver."
Doing her level best to look innocent, and not at all like she'd go stabbing anyone, "Your particular example does not work well, as it's more of a duty than part of the job that makes money. However." Amerie has to argue - she can't go leaving it alone. After all, it's only her reasoning for generally avoiding human contact. "Most of what I fill my time with will either make me money, or is something I'll wear, so likely will in a roundabout way. Perhaps I wouldn't spend as /much/ of my time working were I to otherwise occupy myself, but I don't know that the work itself is a distraction." With a shrug - and a slide away from the toes of boots knocking against the bench, "You can disagree all you like. Everyone's entitled to an opinion."
A short but honest laugh has M'try repeating, "Everyone's entitled to an opinion." It's lucky for him Amerie doesn't hit people, presumably even people who go around mimicking her intonations. "It's gracious of you to permit us at least that much, Amerie. I'm not sure you're exactly following my point, which likely implies I'm not expressing it well enough, but you seem bent on denying the possibility that I'm right, so I suppose it doesn't matter. --They are cruddy boots, I admit," afterthought.
Amerie doesn't hit people, but does maybe look like she'd like to for a moment, dark eyes narrowed. "Frankly, when it comes to /my/ life, no one's entitled to even that," she points out, a bit shortly. With a purse of her lips, she shifts her attention towards the shore for a long moment - and when she speaks again, it's with less of an edge. "I think I do understand - yes, I am rather good at keeping myself busy - but I don't know that it's all distraction. Or that it's all because of a certain lack of personal life. And you can't possibly be right if I am." There's the flash of a lovely smile for that, before; "It's not the boots - if I get dirt on my dress, I'll have to change. That can take time."
"On the contrary." Rubber-stamp-phrase. "I'm still entitled to /my/ opinion about /your/ life. I would just be wise not to express it." One more time, M'try knuckles his chin thoughtfully, his still-in-tact chin, and returns his palm to the grass with a laugh kept subdued in deference to the raising of Amerie's hackles. "Would it make you less paranoid about dirt if I offered to help?" Oh, the innocence of the smile, the hopefully bright green eyes. "With the changing of the dress, that is. Or at least to attend and applaud at appropriate moments? /In/appropriate moments, as the case may be."
With a short little laugh, "On-the-contrary, and you don't try to annoy me specifically." Amerie is just lucky. Glancing over towards M'try, a smirk curving her lips, "You would be wise, and I would thank you not to express it." She's much more polite this time around; a pleasant 'keep out of my business, thx'. Tossing hair back over one shoulder, her brows climb a touch at his offer, though she's frankly skeptical of any innocence - and dark eyes aren't inspiring too much in the way of hope. As patient as if she were explaining it to a child, "It takes time to pick out something else to wear - which I might take your help with, if I trusted your sense of style." After a moment, she has to ask, "Are there appropriate moments to applaud changing?"
With an answering laugh, small but acknowledging, M'try answers, "I say it to everyone, if it's any consolation." There's a long, enlightened ahhhhhh at her explanation of attire selection, his own fingers plucking briefly at the front of his shirt in a doubtful way-- does it take that long?-- before they lower with a smirk at her remark about his sense of style. Lack thereof. "Perhaps if you did a little flourish at the end? Or-- well, there are places I would certainly consider applause-worthy, but it might not be judged so by normal standards. By your standards."
"Then perhaps you irritate everyone equally." Amerie does not look consoled, nor does she really look in need of consolation - she lives with far greater annoyances than M'try and his contrariness. With a meaningful glance between the shirt that he plucks and the pretty sundress she's wearing - it takes time if you bother - her answer to his smirk is along the same lines; "If you made some effort, I'm sure you'd develop one. Slowly." Amused by his last, at least, "If my standards are normal standards. Honestly, it's all much more impressive when presented as a complete package. So much impact is lost in the pieces on their own." Clearly her objections are purely artistic.
With regal self-possession and an air of sober detachment, Amerie seems older than her early twenties; impression strengthened by a capable, sophisticated bearing that makes it seem she's got it all figured out.
Five-foot-ten and a striking beauty, she has long, glossy mahogany hair that falls past her shoulders in waves to frame a round, cocoa-skinned face with small nose, high cheekbones, and full, wide lips. Her eyes are near-black and expressive though they rarely betray more than a flicker of emotion; she has a killer smile that's all the more stunning for its infrequency. Slender with feminine curves in all the right places, she betrays her vanity in rarely appearing anything less than poised and perfect.
She wears simple, classic styles that are perfectly tailored to show off her figure; for a summer day, a breezy, casual strapless sundress in bright lapis blue, colour vibrant against the dusky skin of her neck and shoulders. Just below the bodice, a wide sash ties into a large, gift-like bow above one hip. The bottom-tiered skirt is full and easy and falls to just above the knee, with a flirty perforated pattern of dots and stylized flowers along the hem. Long legs and feet are practically bare, only the simplest pair of leather sandals separating her from the ground.
Shaking his head gravely; "I doubt it. I routinely surround myself with all things aesthetic and yet, and yet. Witness." M'try lowers his chin toward Amerie in her sundress, includes the surroundings in all their summery beauty with that one gesture. "We're back to semantic issues, I'm afraid. Your version of impressive and mine may not necessarily coincide. The dress, though, is quite pretty." The faltering tone implies, frankly, that it's not really his particular version of pretty, at least not the version of pretty that merits applause.
"Have you made an effort /beyond/ that?" Amerie doubts that, by her expression - though she does give the surroundings their due at M'try's gesture, taking in the summer day for a few quiet moments. Dark gaze drifting skyward, she admits, "Another bad example - other outfits are more impressive together. Anything worn with my burgundy boots, I think." Her last is nearly to herself, not expecting anyone else to know the ins and outs of her wardrobe. That faltering tone seems to entertain her; bringing her attention back down to both earth and the brownrider with a near-grin, "In any case, as much as the idea of an audience is interesting, I think it unnecessary."
Twitch of brows, here-and-gone smile, and M'try leaves the question to answer itself. Does it /look/ like he's made an effort beyond that? Not so much. "I like the idea," he begins amusedly, starts to push off his hands after all this while to resume his work with the daisies, starting to wilt in the warmth, "that you think a more elaborate outfit would somehow make the difference. It's commendable, certainly a credit to your commitment to your craft." Just for that, he taps his fingers against the heel of his palm, a little preview of the applause that she's not seeking. "If you ever change your mind, my weyr is just up--" He squints up and up and up and alllllll the way across the bowl. "--there. Somewhere."
Right. Amerie shakes her head a little, rolling her eyes as she slides out of her sandals again, tucking her legs up to cross them under her skirt. Resting elbow on knee, chin in hand, "I would like to think that, when I put several months of my life into something, it might just merit some appreciation. But I see where you're going with this." For the polite applause, she merely smirks at M'try, following his squinting waaaaay up high; shading her eyes, dryly, "I'll keep it in mind in case I feel the need to go for a climb." There's a moment before, with what seems to be sincere interest, "It must be quiet?"
About to say something, judging by the quick open of his mouth, the preemptive breath, M'try skips it when she sees where he's going with this, doesn't have to explain, only lower his head in a nod. Yep, she figured it out, good for her. "It is, actually. Private. No neighbors. I can see pretty much the entire bowl, and someone would have to be specifically looking to notice much of my ledge." And he sounds /very/ happy about that, actually, even beams. "Better than a room off the crafters' workroom, certainly."
Good for her, indeed - though Amerie's not looking like knowing where M'try is going with it is likely to help him get there anytime soon. Tucking back a few stray locks of dark hair as she watches those awful slacking apprentices head off on break, "That sounds helpful, if you're not hoping for visitors. I suppose your pointing out was fairly useless, then - was the fact that it's difficult to find a selling point?" Straightening, her brow arching slightly for his last, "Better in the sense of being found or not-found? I rather like my room, and I'm not fond of dragons, so it works out well for me." A pause, then, "I also have furniture." Just as a note.
"Better in the sense that I'm a nosy bastard and prefer watching to being watched?" In case that wasn't patently obvious already. M'try points it out again, this time with a squint along the line of his index finger to be sure he's pointing out the right ledge. "I have furniture," he's quick to counter with playful defensiveness, sniffs like he's so hurt about her forgetting that fact. "It's just not the prettiest furniture. Though the bed with the red curtains. Selling point? Yes? No?"
With a bare smirk, "Ah, yes. And have you seen anything of interest as of yet?" Amerie may as well find out if he has - though the way she looks back up towards the ledge makes it clear that she's not sure there's much that can be seen from that height. Turning back to M'try, eyeing the wilting daisies, "I have /nice/ furniture? My apologies for forgetting your not-the-prettiest furniture." As for the bed with the red curtains, she has to tell him regretfully, "I'm not sure that you've described it in a way that could be considered a /selling point/. Must it be seen?"
All else aside, no remarking on what he's seen up there excepting from a brief, knowing glance back at her, M'try holds a look on Amerie that struggles very hard with keeping his amusement in check. Beneath it, there's a telling glaze that trances briefly across his eyes, leaves him saying, "Oh Amerie, how I wish you could hear the voice in my head sometimes." Which presumably means Mohraith, and not some implication that he's gone mad. Clearing his throat, somehow finding seriousness for his tone; "Do you /want/ to come up and see it?"
A knowing glance doesn't give Amerie all that much to go on, which leaves her only mildly annoyed - and M'try's struggle with his amusement doesn't really help all that much with her annoyance, perhaps unsurprisingly. However, even if she doesn't really /like/ dragons, it's difficult to blame the brownrider for his reaction to the voices in his head - presuming that's Mohraith and not another voice that's encouraging different sorts of mayhem. With a tone that's somehow somewhere between entertained and restrained, "You may think that you wish that, but I really don't think you do." Just a guess. The question really shouldn't take the moments of consideration that it does; eventually, brow furrowed, "I think that I would have to decide how I felt about going up that high with only one way back down." To put it plainly.
"It would certainly make my life more entertaining." M'try continues to squint up at the walls of the bowl for a spell, at the brown smudge on the Star Stones this time and not one featureless ledge among the hundreds. "Perhaps not /easier/, but certainly entertaining." His exhale is long, slow, and steadily conscientious to avoid a further chuckle before he returns his eyes to Amerie's, head cocked curiously. "That's a reasonable thing to worry about. Let me know which way you decide? If it helps, Mohraith's reliable enough that I doubt you'd be stranded for very long. And you could always use those red curtains to signal help if it came to that." The furrow in his forehead: how in the world it would come to that is beyond him.
Amerie suggests helpfully, "Tell me, then. See how entertained you are." Brows lift, head tilting slightly - a risk M'try's willing to take? Dark eyes meet green easily enough, and she only has an elegant little shrug for the curiosity. "I've never been in a weyr that I couldn't walk out of," she attempts to explain, careful with her words, offering a bare apologetic smile for her particular lack of trust. "Though there is not much of a difference in truth, there's a difference in my mind. My apologies, it's not about - you." She's quiet for a time before, "That's rather insulting, isn't it. I'm sorry."
M'try thinks about it, really contemplates the possibility of sharing what goes on in his head with Amerie for at least a few seconds. Alas, "You really have to hear it at the right volume to get the full effect. If I had one of the Hold's big drums from the fireheights, I might be able to approximate it." Though he shakes his head a touch, like that might be a little off the mark, even. "Don't worry about it. You'll have to do better than that if you're looking to insult me, I assure you. I'll get to work on a ladder, perhaps, to make visiting a bit easier. Right after I finish with the paper-making." Seeing as he's made /no progress at all,/ that ladder may be a long time coming.
Giving that type of volume due consideration, the look Amerie gives M'try is impressed and sympathetic, all at once. With some little surprise, "All the time? How do you manage? How do you - think?" She'll let whatever's being said go this time, in favour of just contemplating that type of volume. Despite his reassurances, she still looks somewhat uncomfortable with the situation, pointing out, "That's a long ladder, and I'm not going to hold my breath for paper. Of course I'll visit." Like the whole thing is ridiculous, like it shouldn't have been a question in the first place.
With wry humor; "Sometimes he sleeps. It's quite tolerable then. The rest of the time..." Trailing off, M'try can only shrug with a look cast up toward that smudge again, the fondness of rider-for-dragon tinging his patient acceptance of Mohraith's less redeeming qualities. "Somewhere in this Weyr," he continues with a blooming grin, looking from that smudge to the how-to book left on the bench next to Amerie, "there's a pamphlet on ladder-making. Eventually, I'll have more free time than distractions to fill it. Then-- then, pretty Weaver, such ladders I'll make as will dazzle you and make the rest of the world think I've gone off my rocker."
Faintly amazed, shaking her head, "Tolerable." Amerie follows M'try's glance up towards the Star Stones this time, picking out the brown smudge. With an odd look for that patient acceptance - not something that comes easily to the weaver - she arches a fine brow for that grin, suggesting, "You may as well find yourself one on making furniture at that point. But it /is/ commonly accepted that ladders are the way to a girl's heart. If the girl in question has one." Doubtful now, "Do you really think that you'll have more free time than distractions? Won't you find yourself some less-industrious ones eventually?"
Ah-hah! That never would have dawned on him had Amerie not pointed it out, and M'try lets the fact amuse him pretty blatantly. Though; "It should be gratifying that I'm more keen to have you come to my weyr than decent furniture?" Her comment about hearts, about the girl's lack of them, has him raise amused eyes to catch hers for just a second, to question whether or not she means that-- because he's not necessarily buying it-- and then it's a shrug. "My 'distractions' are complicated. So I learn to make paper. And I mix paint, though I haven't painted in ages. And I write bad poetry. And I start to feel sorry for myself, so I think that's my cue to make an excuse and go. Mohraith something-something-something, will you excuse me?"
"Perhaps it's just another illustration of the difference between what you hope and what you expect," Amerie muses - and she allows amused green eyes to catch hers, dark gaze not totally serious - but serious enough, whether M'try is buying it or not. Another one of those opinions he's entitled to. Considering the idea of complications, she's a little surprised by the suddenness of the excuse - but is otherwise gracious, giving a low nod. "Of course. Good luck with the paper. And I'll see you soon, I suppose?" Which at least suggests that it would be welcome. It's something?
Mohraith's something-something-something does not seem to involve him coming down from the Star Stones, so the excuse is pathetically transparent, but M'try gets up anyway, collecting his daisies into a jar and the jar into his satchel along with the how-to book. "We do seem to have similar haunts from time to time, so it's entirely possible that you'll see me soon." Shouldering his bag, picking up his ale-mug so as not to go leaving dishes on random garden benches, he flashes a well-practiced smile to Amerie and a last, sympathetic one to her apprentices. "Good luck, ladies," all around on his way back down the path.
At the best of times, Amerie finds people difficult to understand; at this moment, she seems rather lost, not quite sure how to respond. So, she simply doesn't. For M'try's well-practiced smile, she'll flash a rather uncertain one of her own - and just stays right where she is while he heads down the path, and for the time being, attention split between apprentices and quickly-wilting daisies.
IC Date: 8/11/21
Herb Garden, Fort Weyr
The herb garden isn't only a feast for the taste buds, but a veritable feast for the eyes and nose as well. All manner of herbs -- from medicinal to the edible -- are grown here and tended to on a regular basis. The area is fenced in, separating it from the rest of the grounds around it, with a trellis arch over the gate leading into it. There are pathways made from bits of irregularly shaped stones that lead between the various plots and patches of the exquisitely aromatic plants, each section deineated with small signs to indicate what's been grown where. Others have been planted in pots or in boxes, though this treatment is only for those that can't thrive in the native soil.
There are a few benches scattered throughout the sprawling garden, providing places for quiet conversation or for gardeners to take a rest. Toward the southeastern corner of the garden is a smallish shack, which contains things such as clippers, baskets, watering cans and other useful tools.
On a warm and pleasant morning in the garden, there's a few workers busily digging and weeding and pruning away, scattered about, maintaining the neat rows. Notable by both her presence in the outdoors and the fact that she's the only one actually standing up straight is Amerie, walking the path along the section for dye plants with a sharp, critical eye and a purse of full lips; she has the air of a woman looking for mistakes. Weaver apprentices have /all/ the fun around here.
Now now. Weyrlings get at least a little of that leftover fun, though M'try's seems to come more in the version of necessary multi-tasking than getting scowled at by a journeyman-- nowadays, anyway. Holding a sandwich in between his teeth, rummaging in his satchel with one hand, carrying a mug that looks fit to be spilled with every step in the other, he legs it along one of the paths toward some of the pretty flowery sections, veering after a time to interrupt Amerie's lip-pursing with a muffled mumbly hard-to-decipher version of, "Help, please." Made muffled and mumbly by the sandwich, see.
There's a certain amount of noise that the weyrling's attempt at multitasking makes as he approaches - as such, Amerie has the pleasure of watching M'try for a moment or two before he issues the plea, one fine brow arching. "What's in it for me?" she asks, perhaps unsurprisingly - but some sense of pity or similar seems to win out as she reaches out to gingerly take the mug from him. The rest, he can sort out on his own. Attention drifting back to the plant beds, dark gaze flickering over them, "This is lunch? You look less... dead these days, I've noticed."
"Grattlemuff?" M'try might think Amerie can decipher that word as it is, as he makes no effort to clarify it once the sandwich is out of his mouth and into the now mug-free hand, only adds, "Thank you." That after he shakes off a few drops of what's in the mug, ale in case it matters. Now then; "You're positively full of flattery this afternoon, Amerie. I'm not sure I can take such high praise." There's a questioning brow-lift, a look at what occupies her attention-- implied curiosity for her task.
Amerie gives M'try a questioning glance for the sandwich-mangled word, but she's not overly concerned about it; what she is concerned with for the moment is an errant weed near her foot. "It's nothing. Though I think I'll need to put it down in a moment." Rather than bend over with mug in hand, she merely nudges it with the edge of her sandal, her toe. "Considering that you were recently lying about on the lakeshore looking, in fact, near death, I would take it as high praise. However, if it makes you feel better, you look well." Looking over to the brownrider, curious - does it help? - she explains, "I occasionally make sure everyone's doing what they're supposed to be doing out here. Preferably when least expected."
M'try gives the nearest one a sympathetic look while he remarks, "Always a pleasant experience for apprentices, the surprise inspections. I hope they appreciate the energy you're putting in to ensuring they couldn't possibly be out here simply enjoying the fine summer weather?" Perhaps to hasten his taking of the mug, perhaps because he's starving, he ducks his head a bit to one side and takes a remarkably large bite out of his sandwich, nodding along with Amerie's explanation for her, uhmn, flattery like that makes perfect sense now, thank you. In the meantime, he stops fiddling with his satchel to cope with lunch and conversation for the moment.
With a purse of lips for sympathetic glances, "/Someone/ has to do it." And thanks so much! Maybe someone doesn't have to take the sort of enjoyment that Amerie might be taking in busting people, but she has so little in the way of entertainment. "And is there a problem with enjoying the summer weather /while/ finding weeds?" Physically leaving the subject alone, drifting away from the plants and workers and towards a convenient bench that's just crying out for a mug of ale, "I'd ask what you're doing here - aside from about three too many things at once - but it seems obvious. You seem - busy." She carefully sets down the mug, glancing back to M'try to ask, "Does it agree with you?"
Content that he's made his point, M'try answers her first question with no more than a helpless-looking shrug; if she's happy, he's happy, and the apprentices are just collateral damage, seems like. There's another bite, taken and chewed and swallowed in haste to keep up his end of conversation, and he falls a step or two behind so as not to display the grossness involved in eating with necessary but unfortunate voracity. "Does it matter? There's not really a point at which I can opt-out if it doesn't agree with me, so either I'm enjoying it or I'm tolerating it, and they both work out about the same for me." He tosses some crust off toward a bush, food for birds or something. "--Have you ever made paper, Amerie?"
If Amerie has any issues with M'try's table manners - walking manners? - or lack thereof, she doesn't point it out, perhaps a concession to busyness and the aforementioned voracity that results. Instead, she'll take a seat on the other end of the bench, attention on straightening the skirt of her dress, perfection necessary even in casual wear. Crossing long legs, she admits, "You do have a point. I suppose it doesn't matter, but it would make life easier if it did. I rather hope it's working out better than not." Dark gaze following the crust of bread, bemused at the question, "No. I imagine you have?"
Of course, M'try gives perfection its due admiration, complete with a praising nod while he swipes crumbs off his fingers and only then comes for his mug, also to shrug off the satchel to a slouch next to the legs of the bench. "Actually, no, which is why I was hoping you had. Having no practical experience with it, I'm working off written instructions, and..." He pauses the business of drinking, of kneeling next to his satchel and consequently Amerie's knees to teeter his hand uncertainly in the air. "I'll have to keep you appraised of my progress, assuming you're lacking for entertainment."
Amerie smirks a touch for the nod, though to say she's not a little gratified by the admiration would be lying; she's got some issues with that, apparently. Glancing down to the satchel curiously, she has to ask, "Is the paper situation that dire or are you that bored? And no, paper's not exactly on the curriculum at Weaver." The fact that M'try's chosen to kneel right near her legs goes unremarked on, though she does arch one eyebrow; curving something close to an amused smile, "I'd never turn down entertainment, particularly in this particular form of masochism. Though, there must be someone at the Weyr who has /tried/ at least."
To be fair, that is where M'try dropped the satchel-- next to the leg of the bench which is next to the legs of the Weaver. It all goes back to Amerie putting his mug down on the bench, so it's technically her fault, and he's just an innocent pervert. Bystander. Innocent bystander. Speaking of; "Supplemental income. I haven't been as prolific as usual these past weeks, and I've got a weyr woefully empty of decent furnishings at the moment, so I thought I'd give artistic paper a go." Where his mug was, he now sits down a little booklet of instructions, nodding toward it. "I'm sure there must be, but they're not here, and you are. Plus, you know how I'm ever hunting for excuses for your presence." With the flash of a smile up at her, a practiced combination of adoring and bashful, likely useful for getting good marks out of stingy Masters.
Right. Innocent bystander. Totally Amerie's fault. With a purse of her lips, she picks up the little booklet to flip through it idly, interest only vague. "Prolific as usual," she echoes. "A shame. Particularly when one is short of funds or furniture. What have you been left with?" After a few more flips through the pages, she sets the book down just as it was left before, slender hand atop it for a moment before, "My point is that there may be someone out there with the required expertise that /can/ help. My realm of experience is somewhat broad, but not in that direction." She's another arch of her brow for M'try's flash of a smile, not quite buying it, but she allows, "I suppose excuses are needed when you can't afford the most likely ones."
"Or funds for buying furniture, as is the case." M'try liberates a jar and sets it on the bench next to the book, a few sheafs of stiff, flat hide, and then pushes up from his kneel, leaving his half-drained mug there with the rest of it. "There was a bed when I moved in, with red curtains draping it," and he glances amusedly to Amerie then. An odd hand-me-down, in his book. "That was all. I've since scavenged a few sub-prime article." A cluster of daisies is about to have the misfortune of meeting with his pocket-knife, the heads to be maintained carefully in tact even while he looks back with a mild laugh. "I know what your point is, Amerie. But, as you pointed out, I'm not a man of means, so I have to rely on cheap tactics to engage your time and energy. Which at least ought to merit the gratitude of the weed-pullers."
"I've never made a habit of owning much in the way of furniture to begin with. If I had any I could part with, be assured it would be yours, M'try." Amerie declares this with an expansive gesture, endlessly generous in theory. Glancing over at the recently liberated items before allowing a brief, amused smile for the red-curtained bed, she notes dryly, "Very you, no doubt. And sub-prime. That sounds /lovely/." Letting one of her sandals slip from her foot to press toes into the dirt, attention shifting to the soon-to-be-decapitated daisies, "If you are perhaps hoping that I'll tell you that excuses are unnecessary - I can at least say that cheap tactics are a little sad, and that I've never minded our conversations in the past." Without the usual qualifications, it might amount to something near the same thing.
"What I /hope/ and what I /expect/ very rarely coincide," M'try admits with flippant candor, honest but careless about it, now starting a little pile of clipped daisies. Which would make a lovely bouquet if their fate wasn't already decided, so at least Amerie needn't worry about romantic overtures of the floral variety? "I'm comfortable with 'a little sad,'" he adds cheerfully, shrugging casually over the designation, taking an open look at pretty toes in the process. Just to prove the point.
Enlightened for that admission, Amerie tells M'try, "That seems like setting yourself up for constant disappointment. Which, honestly, makes some sense. But it still doesn't make much sense to hope for something different than what is expected." At least, it doesn't make sense in the weaver's world. Watching the daisy pile's creation without any apparent concerns about possible bouquets, with some little resignation for both complacence and toe-ogling, "You would be. Are you comfortable with that as a general label, or only in regards to this situation?"
Dubious; "Doesn't it? Is 'realistic' such a pleasant state to be in that 'hopeful' looks bad by comparison?" Narrowing his eyes a moment doubtfully, M'try shakes his head to deny the suggestion and sits back, palms-to-grass, feigning no occupation for a moment other than watching Amerie. Since she's so okay with it. "Which one do you think is the answer to that question?" he asks after her last, kicking out his legs in a floppy way so his heels hit the ground audibly.
With an arch of eyebrows, "Who expects life to be pleasant?" A dark little smile surfaces on Amerie's lips briefly, before, "I don't fault anyone nor try to deny anyone their optimism. I prefer to expect the usual." Though she's somewhat resigned to being looked at, the weaver is hardly entirely comfortable with it at close quarters; though she doesn't quite colour, she does look past M'try to unfortunate apprentices. After a flicker of a glance back at the heavy sound of heels on dirt, she considers a short time before, "Neither."
"Romantic fools?" M'try guesses at her first question, a grin slow to spread while the next guess dawns on him. "Harpers? Might be synonymous, thinking about it." Briefly, a glance follows Amerie toward the apprentices, just checking out what she's checking out, then he's right back to paying attention to her in a totally unabashed way. Don't put things on display if she doesn't want them viewed! "Really neither or just a perverse neither since I sent your own question back at you?" And, before he has to deal with quid pro quo-- "Because I think it's a perverse neither."
"Fools," Amerie echoes. "Indeed. I'll refrain from casting aspersions on other crafts, however." The apprentices are doing their job - if they could be doing it it resentfully, there's likely a couple that are. Dark gaze still on them, but distant, she notes unnecessarily, "I don't expect much, I'm rarely disappointed. I'm often right." Maybe that has more to do with it than the others. Shifting her attention back to M'try - and attempting to seem unaffected by being watched - she offers with apparent honesty, "If it were a perverse neither, I wouldn't think about it. Really neither."
There's a few seconds of pause and then, "Much." M'try lingers the word, spends time comparing its existence to the person that spoke it, green eyes narrowing intently over his contemplation. "I want to ask what you expect, Amerie, but I keep thinking that the answer will only leave me feeling deflated, so perhaps I'll skip it." Not without a sigh, deflating himself to some extent. "You can tell me to stop staring if you want to," he points out from behind a renewed merriness, a slight smile coming back to him. "I won't be offended, but I also won't do it on my own."
Sliding her foot back into her sandal, regarding it for a moment, "Deflated. Why? I expect people to act in their own self-interest, primarily. Everything else comes from there." Amerie's cheeks do eventually flush a little beneath dark skin, but it's not until M'try is so helpful with his suggestions; with a flat dark look for the brownrider, "I didn't think you were capable of listening. Looking is one thing, /staring/ is quite another. Do you always do that sort of thing specifically to annoy people? If so, I can see why you do need the cheap tactics."
M'try doesn't say anything about Amerie's expectations, but he lifts one hand off the grass and extends it slightly in her direction, fingers dipped, the gesture for 'there you have it.' Shaking his head, amused as much as he is unsurprised, he plops his hand back down and is thus able to meet her dark look with a light one, a smiling one. "Do you think I'm doing it specifically to annoy you? I'm not," and isn't defensive about it, just entertained, "but it's interesting that you think so."
Amerie doesn't love that she's so entertaining, by her expression - but it passes quickly enough, schooled behind something more neutral as she rearranges her skirt idly. "You think differently," she states, rather than guesses before looking up to M'try again, dark eyes faintly bemused. Slowly, "That's a default assumption with people who have seemed to enjoy pestering me in the past. I apologize for assuming incorrectly, then? Though it doesn't really change my level of comfort with staring."
Yes, M'try thinks differently, and he nods to acknowledge the fact, but he's not keen to pursue the philosophical issue any further. There are easier, potentially more productive threads of conversation to unravel, and he sticks to that line instead. "I don't enjoy pestering you, per se," he counters airily. "I just seem to have a knack for it, or perhaps you're simply predisposed to being pestered. Either way." Shrug. "All the effort you put in to looking as lovely as possible, and you don't enjoy the fruits of your labors? It's a tree falling in the woods, Amerie. Is something beautiful if no one appreciates it?"
The chances of said conversational threads becoming all that productive with Amerie may seem slim, but the plus side is it's somewhat less depressing! With faint, put-on surprise for M'try's supposed lack of enjoyment in irritating her, she does have to admit, "I am easily annoyed. You have a point in that." As for the time and effort that goes into being her, "It's necessary to business. I can't see doing the kind of work that I do if I didn't look perfect." There's a pause before she can add, a bit more quietly, "Other than that, I don't do this for other people. I do this for myself. Attention comes along with it."
"Then we're both in the business of beauty. You look lovely, I attempt to reproduce it." M'try smiles winningly then, as though he's made a brilliant leap of logic and is quite proud of himself for it, an expression that leads into a quieter smile to match her quieter addition. "I'm sorry if it bothers you," he says authentically, finally lets his attention wander back to his decapitated daisies so they can be flattened out, presumably for some paper-making purpose and not just because he's a floral vivisectionist. "But you do your work well. You are beautiful." With a devotion that daisies surely don't deserve, though that's where he's looking at the moment, "And I am enamored. --Perils of the profession." That last with a quickly found cheekiness.
Amerie gives a nod of agreement for winning smile, though she feels she must amend, "I try to make the world more beautiful, to be honest. It's just that some of the world takes a bit more work than others." It's the most positive spin she's put on her work to date, and she does seem quite serious about it. Allowing her gaze to shift M'try's way only after she's felt his move away, she gives a shrug. "It bothers me, but I wonder that it should. I manage through the gathers, but it sees different when - there's less people." His words might have been enough to prolong the flush to her cheeks, but it's the way he looks at the daisies when he speaks that does it this time; lightly, "Thank you. I am flattered, though I seem to recall that there's many women you're enamored of, at one time or another. Perils of the profession indeed."
At 'some of the world,' M'try can't help looking around at this particular corner of the world with brightening eyes. Not a word. "I can respect that. It's easier to suffer the attention of a thousand people than one in particular," he agrees in a been-there-done-that tone, his frown meant for a posey that keeps bowing its head in a highly unflattering way. That one, he tosses back to a shallow grave beneath the daisy-bush. "Ah," with a quick contradiction. "I've pared back the number considerably. I'm down to--" Four fingers. Five. A slow six. The surrender to just fluttering all ten of them and then shoving them back to sorting flowers. "Point being, I have limited time for paying homage these days. Yet I still worship at your shrine. I hope you appreciate the gravity of this compliment." To match Amerie's light tone.
Sadly, "You can't dress everyone." More's the pity, in Amerie's mind; "If you could, things might be horrible at times, but at least everyone would look fabulous. And I suppose it is easier - a large group, you can ignore. Someone who's sitting right in front of you..." She gestures towards M'try. Less so. Nodding slowly as she is so corrected, the rapid increase of fingers has her smirking, and she has to repeat, "/Considerably/. Well, I'm impressed at your resolve, and am honoured that you continue to make the pilgrimage. In hopes of what, I wonder."
Honestly? "I wonder the same thing sometimes. I like to think it's merely an appreciation for a beautiful woman, the luxury of being in the presence of someone so lovely, et cetera." But M'try's back to leaning on his hands for a moment, suffering Amerie to the scrutiny of a glance once more, allowing his smile to spread slowly and thoroughly. "I like to think that. But let's be truthful. I'm male, I'm twenty, I'm perhaps unhealthily preoccupied with sex, and you haven't hit me. Yet. The writing is on the metaphorical walls." Playing with posies: euphemism #1,657.
With something close to a smile, glancing back towards the caverns, "There are not a lack of beautiful women to appreciate at Fort, I am sure you have noticed." Amerie certainly has; beautiful women need equally beautiful dresses at some point in their lives. Dark gaze sliding back over to M'try, taking in that smile with the perfect arch of one fine brow, the weaver almost looks faintly apologetic for a beat before it's gone as she glances away again - hey look, daisies. Evenly, "I don't hit people, so there's that at least." That's the good news! The bad news... "I... don't really sleep with people either. In the spirit of being truthful."
With amused slowness, M'try answers, "The thought did occur to me, yes." That there are an inordinate number of attractive women at Fort Weyr, he means. Which begs the question of why he's not been so prolific these last weeks, but that's another matter entirely. "Comforting," to her first. "My lack of bumps and bruises appreciates that." He knuckles beneath a scruffy but very likely glass jaw, finds a shrug to answer Amerie's bad news without her same necessity for looking elsewhere; this particular candor costs him so little effort that he can actually maintain eye contact, good for him. "If it makes you feel better, Amerie, neither do I. Which I'm guessing accounts for the reason that we both have half a hundred ways to keep ourselves occupied." With a daisy stem, he points to her henpecked apprentices. "Behold, distractions."
Thoughtfully, on a slight detour, "I wonder why that is. Not that I mind, more clothes to make, but..." Amerie trails off with her own diffident shrug after - then lifting a fist that doesn't look as if it could do a ton of damage, looking between it and M'try, amused. "Somehow, I doubt that you'd be too battered. I'm better with my scissors and needles." Any kind of serious honesty on the weaver's part seems to cost some little effort; though she's a faint smile for the presentation of Exhibit A, she seems a little skeptical of his claims, merely countering, "I thought that was called 'working'. Furthering one's career. Making money. All good things."
Since M'try just never thought to look (copious numbers of hot) gift horses in the mouth, he doesn't even try to speculate why the pretty people have congregated at his doorstep. Instead; "Not! As comforting," he answers to the idea of scissors and needles, leans back on his hands as if he needs that little extra distance between himself and Amerie, thank you. "Six of one," working, furthering one's career, "half-dozen of another. You're here to oversee apprentices who very likely know exactly how to pull weeds without your assistance, Amerie. I'm out here pulling the heads off of daisies." With a twitchy press of his eyes closed for a second, it really does sound bad to him. "Exactly how much money are either of us making at this exact moment?"
With a gesture to her lack of sewing kit, or space for either weapon on her person, "They're not here." But Amerie might have made M'try think twice about knocking on her door in the middle of the night. There's a quirk of a grin for that extra distance, slipping away a moment later as she sighs, "They know /how/, yes. But they do have to be checked on every once in awhile - I'm partially responsible for them." And for criticizing them, but that's beside the point. Lips curving into a smirk for heads of daisies, she just gives him a look for his last. "What does that have to do with anything? I /could/ be working inside - I could give you a decent estimate for that time."
"I'm just making a point," M'try argues lightly, stays leaned back the whole time just in case those sharp pointy things appear-- regardless of her assurance that they're not here. Women are not to be trusted when it comes to peril! "Said point being... you argued that they're not just distractions, that they're some sort of professional advancement, some sort of capitalism. I--" He makes a point of crossing his ankles lightly, of looking especially comfortable half-sprawled on the grass next to the flowers he's deposed, of knocking his toes against the bench where Amerie sits all this while. "--beg to differ, pretty Weaver."
Doing her level best to look innocent, and not at all like she'd go stabbing anyone, "Your particular example does not work well, as it's more of a duty than part of the job that makes money. However." Amerie has to argue - she can't go leaving it alone. After all, it's only her reasoning for generally avoiding human contact. "Most of what I fill my time with will either make me money, or is something I'll wear, so likely will in a roundabout way. Perhaps I wouldn't spend as /much/ of my time working were I to otherwise occupy myself, but I don't know that the work itself is a distraction." With a shrug - and a slide away from the toes of boots knocking against the bench, "You can disagree all you like. Everyone's entitled to an opinion."
A short but honest laugh has M'try repeating, "Everyone's entitled to an opinion." It's lucky for him Amerie doesn't hit people, presumably even people who go around mimicking her intonations. "It's gracious of you to permit us at least that much, Amerie. I'm not sure you're exactly following my point, which likely implies I'm not expressing it well enough, but you seem bent on denying the possibility that I'm right, so I suppose it doesn't matter. --They are cruddy boots, I admit," afterthought.
Amerie doesn't hit people, but does maybe look like she'd like to for a moment, dark eyes narrowed. "Frankly, when it comes to /my/ life, no one's entitled to even that," she points out, a bit shortly. With a purse of her lips, she shifts her attention towards the shore for a long moment - and when she speaks again, it's with less of an edge. "I think I do understand - yes, I am rather good at keeping myself busy - but I don't know that it's all distraction. Or that it's all because of a certain lack of personal life. And you can't possibly be right if I am." There's the flash of a lovely smile for that, before; "It's not the boots - if I get dirt on my dress, I'll have to change. That can take time."
"On the contrary." Rubber-stamp-phrase. "I'm still entitled to /my/ opinion about /your/ life. I would just be wise not to express it." One more time, M'try knuckles his chin thoughtfully, his still-in-tact chin, and returns his palm to the grass with a laugh kept subdued in deference to the raising of Amerie's hackles. "Would it make you less paranoid about dirt if I offered to help?" Oh, the innocence of the smile, the hopefully bright green eyes. "With the changing of the dress, that is. Or at least to attend and applaud at appropriate moments? /In/appropriate moments, as the case may be."
With a short little laugh, "On-the-contrary, and you don't try to annoy me specifically." Amerie is just lucky. Glancing over towards M'try, a smirk curving her lips, "You would be wise, and I would thank you not to express it." She's much more polite this time around; a pleasant 'keep out of my business, thx'. Tossing hair back over one shoulder, her brows climb a touch at his offer, though she's frankly skeptical of any innocence - and dark eyes aren't inspiring too much in the way of hope. As patient as if she were explaining it to a child, "It takes time to pick out something else to wear - which I might take your help with, if I trusted your sense of style." After a moment, she has to ask, "Are there appropriate moments to applaud changing?"
With an answering laugh, small but acknowledging, M'try answers, "I say it to everyone, if it's any consolation." There's a long, enlightened ahhhhhh at her explanation of attire selection, his own fingers plucking briefly at the front of his shirt in a doubtful way-- does it take that long?-- before they lower with a smirk at her remark about his sense of style. Lack thereof. "Perhaps if you did a little flourish at the end? Or-- well, there are places I would certainly consider applause-worthy, but it might not be judged so by normal standards. By your standards."
"Then perhaps you irritate everyone equally." Amerie does not look consoled, nor does she really look in need of consolation - she lives with far greater annoyances than M'try and his contrariness. With a meaningful glance between the shirt that he plucks and the pretty sundress she's wearing - it takes time if you bother - her answer to his smirk is along the same lines; "If you made some effort, I'm sure you'd develop one. Slowly." Amused by his last, at least, "If my standards are normal standards. Honestly, it's all much more impressive when presented as a complete package. So much impact is lost in the pieces on their own." Clearly her objections are purely artistic.
With regal self-possession and an air of sober detachment, Amerie seems older than her early twenties; impression strengthened by a capable, sophisticated bearing that makes it seem she's got it all figured out.
Five-foot-ten and a striking beauty, she has long, glossy mahogany hair that falls past her shoulders in waves to frame a round, cocoa-skinned face with small nose, high cheekbones, and full, wide lips. Her eyes are near-black and expressive though they rarely betray more than a flicker of emotion; she has a killer smile that's all the more stunning for its infrequency. Slender with feminine curves in all the right places, she betrays her vanity in rarely appearing anything less than poised and perfect.
She wears simple, classic styles that are perfectly tailored to show off her figure; for a summer day, a breezy, casual strapless sundress in bright lapis blue, colour vibrant against the dusky skin of her neck and shoulders. Just below the bodice, a wide sash ties into a large, gift-like bow above one hip. The bottom-tiered skirt is full and easy and falls to just above the knee, with a flirty perforated pattern of dots and stylized flowers along the hem. Long legs and feet are practically bare, only the simplest pair of leather sandals separating her from the ground.
Shaking his head gravely; "I doubt it. I routinely surround myself with all things aesthetic and yet, and yet. Witness." M'try lowers his chin toward Amerie in her sundress, includes the surroundings in all their summery beauty with that one gesture. "We're back to semantic issues, I'm afraid. Your version of impressive and mine may not necessarily coincide. The dress, though, is quite pretty." The faltering tone implies, frankly, that it's not really his particular version of pretty, at least not the version of pretty that merits applause.
"Have you made an effort /beyond/ that?" Amerie doubts that, by her expression - though she does give the surroundings their due at M'try's gesture, taking in the summer day for a few quiet moments. Dark gaze drifting skyward, she admits, "Another bad example - other outfits are more impressive together. Anything worn with my burgundy boots, I think." Her last is nearly to herself, not expecting anyone else to know the ins and outs of her wardrobe. That faltering tone seems to entertain her; bringing her attention back down to both earth and the brownrider with a near-grin, "In any case, as much as the idea of an audience is interesting, I think it unnecessary."
Twitch of brows, here-and-gone smile, and M'try leaves the question to answer itself. Does it /look/ like he's made an effort beyond that? Not so much. "I like the idea," he begins amusedly, starts to push off his hands after all this while to resume his work with the daisies, starting to wilt in the warmth, "that you think a more elaborate outfit would somehow make the difference. It's commendable, certainly a credit to your commitment to your craft." Just for that, he taps his fingers against the heel of his palm, a little preview of the applause that she's not seeking. "If you ever change your mind, my weyr is just up--" He squints up and up and up and alllllll the way across the bowl. "--there. Somewhere."
Right. Amerie shakes her head a little, rolling her eyes as she slides out of her sandals again, tucking her legs up to cross them under her skirt. Resting elbow on knee, chin in hand, "I would like to think that, when I put several months of my life into something, it might just merit some appreciation. But I see where you're going with this." For the polite applause, she merely smirks at M'try, following his squinting waaaaay up high; shading her eyes, dryly, "I'll keep it in mind in case I feel the need to go for a climb." There's a moment before, with what seems to be sincere interest, "It must be quiet?"
About to say something, judging by the quick open of his mouth, the preemptive breath, M'try skips it when she sees where he's going with this, doesn't have to explain, only lower his head in a nod. Yep, she figured it out, good for her. "It is, actually. Private. No neighbors. I can see pretty much the entire bowl, and someone would have to be specifically looking to notice much of my ledge." And he sounds /very/ happy about that, actually, even beams. "Better than a room off the crafters' workroom, certainly."
Good for her, indeed - though Amerie's not looking like knowing where M'try is going with it is likely to help him get there anytime soon. Tucking back a few stray locks of dark hair as she watches those awful slacking apprentices head off on break, "That sounds helpful, if you're not hoping for visitors. I suppose your pointing out was fairly useless, then - was the fact that it's difficult to find a selling point?" Straightening, her brow arching slightly for his last, "Better in the sense of being found or not-found? I rather like my room, and I'm not fond of dragons, so it works out well for me." A pause, then, "I also have furniture." Just as a note.
"Better in the sense that I'm a nosy bastard and prefer watching to being watched?" In case that wasn't patently obvious already. M'try points it out again, this time with a squint along the line of his index finger to be sure he's pointing out the right ledge. "I have furniture," he's quick to counter with playful defensiveness, sniffs like he's so hurt about her forgetting that fact. "It's just not the prettiest furniture. Though the bed with the red curtains. Selling point? Yes? No?"
With a bare smirk, "Ah, yes. And have you seen anything of interest as of yet?" Amerie may as well find out if he has - though the way she looks back up towards the ledge makes it clear that she's not sure there's much that can be seen from that height. Turning back to M'try, eyeing the wilting daisies, "I have /nice/ furniture? My apologies for forgetting your not-the-prettiest furniture." As for the bed with the red curtains, she has to tell him regretfully, "I'm not sure that you've described it in a way that could be considered a /selling point/. Must it be seen?"
All else aside, no remarking on what he's seen up there excepting from a brief, knowing glance back at her, M'try holds a look on Amerie that struggles very hard with keeping his amusement in check. Beneath it, there's a telling glaze that trances briefly across his eyes, leaves him saying, "Oh Amerie, how I wish you could hear the voice in my head sometimes." Which presumably means Mohraith, and not some implication that he's gone mad. Clearing his throat, somehow finding seriousness for his tone; "Do you /want/ to come up and see it?"
A knowing glance doesn't give Amerie all that much to go on, which leaves her only mildly annoyed - and M'try's struggle with his amusement doesn't really help all that much with her annoyance, perhaps unsurprisingly. However, even if she doesn't really /like/ dragons, it's difficult to blame the brownrider for his reaction to the voices in his head - presuming that's Mohraith and not another voice that's encouraging different sorts of mayhem. With a tone that's somehow somewhere between entertained and restrained, "You may think that you wish that, but I really don't think you do." Just a guess. The question really shouldn't take the moments of consideration that it does; eventually, brow furrowed, "I think that I would have to decide how I felt about going up that high with only one way back down." To put it plainly.
"It would certainly make my life more entertaining." M'try continues to squint up at the walls of the bowl for a spell, at the brown smudge on the Star Stones this time and not one featureless ledge among the hundreds. "Perhaps not /easier/, but certainly entertaining." His exhale is long, slow, and steadily conscientious to avoid a further chuckle before he returns his eyes to Amerie's, head cocked curiously. "That's a reasonable thing to worry about. Let me know which way you decide? If it helps, Mohraith's reliable enough that I doubt you'd be stranded for very long. And you could always use those red curtains to signal help if it came to that." The furrow in his forehead: how in the world it would come to that is beyond him.
Amerie suggests helpfully, "Tell me, then. See how entertained you are." Brows lift, head tilting slightly - a risk M'try's willing to take? Dark eyes meet green easily enough, and she only has an elegant little shrug for the curiosity. "I've never been in a weyr that I couldn't walk out of," she attempts to explain, careful with her words, offering a bare apologetic smile for her particular lack of trust. "Though there is not much of a difference in truth, there's a difference in my mind. My apologies, it's not about - you." She's quiet for a time before, "That's rather insulting, isn't it. I'm sorry."
M'try thinks about it, really contemplates the possibility of sharing what goes on in his head with Amerie for at least a few seconds. Alas, "You really have to hear it at the right volume to get the full effect. If I had one of the Hold's big drums from the fireheights, I might be able to approximate it." Though he shakes his head a touch, like that might be a little off the mark, even. "Don't worry about it. You'll have to do better than that if you're looking to insult me, I assure you. I'll get to work on a ladder, perhaps, to make visiting a bit easier. Right after I finish with the paper-making." Seeing as he's made /no progress at all,/ that ladder may be a long time coming.
Giving that type of volume due consideration, the look Amerie gives M'try is impressed and sympathetic, all at once. With some little surprise, "All the time? How do you manage? How do you - think?" She'll let whatever's being said go this time, in favour of just contemplating that type of volume. Despite his reassurances, she still looks somewhat uncomfortable with the situation, pointing out, "That's a long ladder, and I'm not going to hold my breath for paper. Of course I'll visit." Like the whole thing is ridiculous, like it shouldn't have been a question in the first place.
With wry humor; "Sometimes he sleeps. It's quite tolerable then. The rest of the time..." Trailing off, M'try can only shrug with a look cast up toward that smudge again, the fondness of rider-for-dragon tinging his patient acceptance of Mohraith's less redeeming qualities. "Somewhere in this Weyr," he continues with a blooming grin, looking from that smudge to the how-to book left on the bench next to Amerie, "there's a pamphlet on ladder-making. Eventually, I'll have more free time than distractions to fill it. Then-- then, pretty Weaver, such ladders I'll make as will dazzle you and make the rest of the world think I've gone off my rocker."
Faintly amazed, shaking her head, "Tolerable." Amerie follows M'try's glance up towards the Star Stones this time, picking out the brown smudge. With an odd look for that patient acceptance - not something that comes easily to the weaver - she arches a fine brow for that grin, suggesting, "You may as well find yourself one on making furniture at that point. But it /is/ commonly accepted that ladders are the way to a girl's heart. If the girl in question has one." Doubtful now, "Do you really think that you'll have more free time than distractions? Won't you find yourself some less-industrious ones eventually?"
Ah-hah! That never would have dawned on him had Amerie not pointed it out, and M'try lets the fact amuse him pretty blatantly. Though; "It should be gratifying that I'm more keen to have you come to my weyr than decent furniture?" Her comment about hearts, about the girl's lack of them, has him raise amused eyes to catch hers for just a second, to question whether or not she means that-- because he's not necessarily buying it-- and then it's a shrug. "My 'distractions' are complicated. So I learn to make paper. And I mix paint, though I haven't painted in ages. And I write bad poetry. And I start to feel sorry for myself, so I think that's my cue to make an excuse and go. Mohraith something-something-something, will you excuse me?"
"Perhaps it's just another illustration of the difference between what you hope and what you expect," Amerie muses - and she allows amused green eyes to catch hers, dark gaze not totally serious - but serious enough, whether M'try is buying it or not. Another one of those opinions he's entitled to. Considering the idea of complications, she's a little surprised by the suddenness of the excuse - but is otherwise gracious, giving a low nod. "Of course. Good luck with the paper. And I'll see you soon, I suppose?" Which at least suggests that it would be welcome. It's something?
Mohraith's something-something-something does not seem to involve him coming down from the Star Stones, so the excuse is pathetically transparent, but M'try gets up anyway, collecting his daisies into a jar and the jar into his satchel along with the how-to book. "We do seem to have similar haunts from time to time, so it's entirely possible that you'll see me soon." Shouldering his bag, picking up his ale-mug so as not to go leaving dishes on random garden benches, he flashes a well-practiced smile to Amerie and a last, sympathetic one to her apprentices. "Good luck, ladies," all around on his way back down the path.
At the best of times, Amerie finds people difficult to understand; at this moment, she seems rather lost, not quite sure how to respond. So, she simply doesn't. For M'try's well-practiced smile, she'll flash a rather uncertain one of her own - and just stays right where she is while he heads down the path, and for the time being, attention split between apprentices and quickly-wilting daisies.