[M'try] M'try accuses Nenita of lying, kinda-sorta. But she is lying, so she totally deserves it.
RL Date: 2/11/10
IC Date: 13/5/21
Dragon> To Safriath, Mohraith should learn to introduce himself. Or say hi. Or even just /not be as loud as possible all the time/. << WE HAVE SOME QUESTIONS! >> It's like a five-car pile-up at rush hour, the crash-bang-thrum of this brown's mind.
Dragon> To Mohraith, Safriath is out sunning and relaxing. Safriath doesn't like weird, loud dragons from other places. These feelings are not restrained as she allows the full weight of her irritation to seep through like poison to Mohraith. << You have an inside voice too, please use it. >>
Dragon> Maybe it's just to prove a point, but this one's even louder. << WHAT IS AN INSIDE VOICE?!!? >> As if with volume alone he could bridge the distance between Ista and Fort. Mohraith's not oblivious to the irritation he's managed to pique in the gold, of course, but he seems sort of... comfortable with it. Like, pissing off other dragons, especially ones who aren't brace for his particular LOUDNESS, is just par for the course. (Mohraith to Safriath)
Dragon> To Mohraith, Safriath gathers up and that seeping from before gathers up into a fist that clunks straight down his consciousness. Irrational, senseless distaste for this brown that she doesn't know as well as an underlying message of 'useyourgoddmaninsidevoice' or 'i'llsquishyoulikeabug'. << What questions? >>
Dragon> To Safriath, Mohraith withdraws for a time after that sucker punch, his poor mental presence all licking his wounds for a time and likely getting shoved back into the ring whether he likes it or not. While 'you gotta cut me, Mick' might be braver, it's more like 'just go back in there and talk to her, you big baby.' More like rush-hour without the twisted metal of a mammoth traffic accident, still loud with the rumble of machinery and busy-ness, he answers, << A lot. M'try wants to know if your rider is decent. >> No, wait, that's not right. That's /usually/ right, but this time-- << M'try wants to know if he can talk to her. >> It's really like having an interpreter that takes a lot of poetic license.
Dragon> To Mohraith, Safriath isn't very subtle, there's definitely an aura of gloating to her when he returns subdued. She listens though with a kind of cocked-eyebrow expectation, mental stare going wide at the question of decency. << She's- >> An abrupt stop there and some silence as she withdraws herself. Upon returning, << She'll be in the meeting room at our Weyr. >> A crisp series of visuals is sent to him. Bowl. Stairs to ledges. Door to meeting room. << You can stay on the rim of the bowl. >>
Dragon> Look, you'll just have to forgive Mohraith but-- << HOW WILL M'TRY GET DOWN TO THE BOWL IF I'M ON THE RIM?! >> Splat? He doesn't like this thought, thanks. (Mohraith to Safriath)
Dragon> To Mohraith, Safriath's response is simply stunned disbelief. Can this dragon really be that stupid? She doesn't give him any clarification on what to do. Just leaves him shaking her head.
Meeting Room, Ista Weyr
Clean, bold lines give the meeting room an air of formality. Oval is a recurring shape here, echoed in the simple chandelier that hangs from the high rounded ceiling, the beautiful oak table that rests directly beneath it and the dark orange rug with black fringe that covers the center of the floor. A dozen wooden chairs surround the table and extras stand waiting along each wall. To soften the effect of stone and wood, an old tapestry hangs on the west side of the room with shelves of scrolls and a stocked sideboard located across from it. There are sconces for torches or glows set into the stone walls at regular intervals.
A heavy door leads out to the lower caverns and a more private, curtained passage holds the stairs up the Weyrleaders' ledges.
Nenita may have been here before Mohraith's request for conference or she might not have been. Some papers are spread across the large table, busy work if anything. But that's not where the goldrider is. Instead she's at that little cabinet, moving the few bottles that are in there. Her expression is curious as if she's never really opened it up and seen what was inside before. Now and again she glances over her shoulder to the entrance, waiting.
Outside, Mohraith ANNOUNCES HIS PRESENCE to any and every dragon that might be listening, and a few that probably weren't but will be now. Having had things explained, he touches down but briefly, deposits his rider with his coat (quickly shucked) and his satchel (omni-present), and goes right back up to the rim where he belongs. Plus, it's a good place to sit and watch stuff. "Thank you for seeing me, Weyrwoman," is M'try's prompt greeting, having half-jogged his way over here, stopping in the door for a second to get the lay of the land. Which leads into him, with his eyes on the orange-and-black rug, asking, "Just in case someone forgets where they are?"
Nenita is down there still, but stops her rifling when M'try finally arrives in the room. She looks over her shoulder again and then down to the rug. "I guess. I wasn't part of the interior decorating that decided to put that there. Not your style?" Curious as she gets to her feet, dusting her hands off on her pants. The nearest seat to her is pulled out and she sits down, looking up at him questioningly. "Are you going to show me more pictures?"
"It just seems like it's trying to make a point that I'm not sure needs to be made," M'try explains, steps forward so that his toe nudges the edge of the rug in question and folds a corner over itself, exposing the underside of the orange-and-black weave. Anyway. Looking up, smiling without shame or hesitation, he answers, "Yes. Are you going to invite me to sit down?" That question imitates the cadence of Nenita's own query with what usually winds up being irritating precision, quite the little mimic.
"Perhaps. But maybe not. After all, it's just a rug." Nenita shrugs her shoulders. The state of affairs with the floor's decorations don't seem particularly urgen to her. Dropping an elbow onto the table she looks up at him with interest, her eyes flicking to the satchel hanging over his shoulder. The other free hand waves to the seats across from her. "Take which everyone you want to."
M'try flicks the folded corner back the way it's supposed to go with a quick swipe of the bottom of his foot, the same moment used to drape his coat over the back of one of the chairs. This is not the same chair that he sits in, as he elects to take the one right on Nenita's left instead, pulling that satchel up over his neck and sliding it onto the table as he goes. "Thank you. Your hospitality knows no bounds." He conveniently ducks to open the satchel and hide the smirk that accompanies the remark. "I'm fairly sure you'll recognize the gentleman in question this time, at least. I'd merely like a name to go with the face," he explains conversationally while he looks for the correct notebook (and not the one full of porn, important distinction).
Nenita slides her chair just far enough away from the weyrling so that they both have a comfortable amount of personal space. Her elbow finds its placement on the table again, allowing her hand the opportunity to lend her head some sort support. Eyebrows lift and she smiles close-lipped at the remark on hospitality. "What makes you so certain?" Just enough honest sounding curiosity to make it seem like it could be genuine.
M'try looks up from what he's doing long enough to hold Nenita's eyes, if she's not going to duck the look, and answer with undue gravity; "Because I have good instincts." He opens his sketchbook several pages too early, definitely not an accident, and flips through those first pages-- a large island seen from above; a bird's-eye-view of a rocky cove, complete with one large ship; some far-off views of one Farshon and one Toothy Lou; L'hai, rendered in clean detail; finally-- "This one." Ch'son, from afar alas, but discernible.
Those pages, flipped through too early do little to ruffle Nenita's feathers. Her eyes linger on the pictures of Farshon and Toothy Lou however, in a way that suggests she's thinking on something. Whether or not it's recognition is up to personal perception. She stares hard then at the sketch of the bronzerider, squinting then as if she's trying hard to place him a look of concentration crossing her features. But then, "Actually. If I may?" Her hand comes, hovering just above the corner of the notebook with the intent to turn a page carefully back. If allowed she'll flip back to those two pirates.
Whether or not M'try perceives it as recognition is also up to personal perception; the kid mostly just keeps staring at Nenita all the while, one hand possessively on the spine of the sketchbook. His fingers twitch at her question, tap on that spine for a second, and then withdraw with pointed reluctance, index finger sliding it a little more toward the goldrider to indicate the relinquishing of control. "By all means."
She'd pushed her chair back and away from M'try before, but now she's back pulling it disarmingly close to where the weyrling sits. Messy hair is brushed back with a careless flick of her fingers, tucked behind her hair. She takes the relinquished notebook and flips the pages back, not bothering to look at the others and stopping instead at those other men. Her index finger comes down and stops before she touches it, trying to avoid blurring the pages, right over Toothy Lou. "Him. Last spring when we had that storm, our weyr was bloated with out of work sailors, dockhands. He took to bullying some of the girls down at the Seven, barmaids at the Sandbar. Brutal, really. He's not permitted to come to Ista again."
Disarming is all a matter of opinion. Since generally women are busy getting pissed off at him, M'try can't find it in him to complain, though that might also have to do with his focus being on the matter at hand. "Interesting," is his comment toward the back-story of Toothy Lou, brows knitting together for a few moments afterward like he's putting some things in order in his mind. "Strange, then, that one of your bronzeriders still has business with him, don't you think?" The musing quality is a sliver shy of totally believable, so close to sound honest that the falling-short stands out that much more. "But, back to my original question, who is the other one?" He indicates, with a bending of his fingers, that she should go forward those few pages again, please?
"It would be strange if one of my bronzeriders had business with him. It would be most disconcerting and the bronzerider in question would have to be punished most severely." Nenita says with ease, flipping the page over to the sketch of Ch'son again. "I don't tolerate such flagrant disobediance in my weyr." When the page is back into view, she tips her head back up at him and smiles, friendly and apologetic. "But this isn't one of my riders, bronze or otherwise. I'm sorry that once again I'm of little help to you." So sorry.
"Good," M'try says, smiling in a very thin way. "I'm glad he's not one of your riders. The other one, though. L'hai?" He reaches back across to the pages, peels up a corner-- not that one, not the next one, ah yes. The one of L'hai, right down there amid all that whatever-it-is-they're-doing. "He certainly is. Punished most severely," he repeats, brow twitched upward for the words as if to question that Nenita really meant it as badly as it sounded.
There's an incredulous laugh from Nenita when the page is flipped to the one of the L'hai. Her eyes sweep from the page up to the weyrling and her grin is broad, another almost tap of her finger to paper. "Kolniveth's rider? He's one of my bronzeriders, yes. And we're most intimately acquainted. However, he's the last person I would suspect to be connected to any sort of... activity invoving that other fellow. Whoever told you this is L'hai is most certainly mistaken. I'm sorry you were given a mis-identification." She closes his notebook gently and hands it back to him.
M'try leans his head forward a second, tilted to one side, like he's really got to cock an ear to hear this particular tale. After one false start, one breath taken when there's nothing after it except a pause to reorder his thoughts, he says quite reasonably, "Madam, I know that it's L'hai. I've met him personally. I assure you, my eyes are never deceived. Now, if you find it far-fetched that he's involved with these other gentlemen, I can respect that, but it /is/ him." He changes the angle of the book slightly, as if a second look might be in order.
Nenita smiles sweetly at the brownrider and levels him with a type of look. The type of look a mother gives a child who's clearly confused on something and she doesn't want to correct him too harshly. "I think you were out poking around. You got your blood all heated up, thought you saw someone, L'hai. You've met him before. Then you saw this person." Her hand waves to his notebook. "Perhaps they look strikingly similar to the eyes. I don't know, I wasn't there." Her shoulders lift. "You hop on your dragon and fly home. Do some drawings, leap to some conclusions. False conclusions. I know L'hai. I don't know the true clarity of your sight despite your assurances." Her hand comes out to stop anymore flipping pages. "You're mistaken." Calm!
"Oh, I was most certainly poking around," M'try admits without hesitation, lacking apology, though the rest of Nenita's explanation has him take a deep, disappointed breath that ends with him shaking his head. "I'm not mistaken." But he takes the book back, sliding it out from beneath her fingers and closing it with unmistakable aplomb. "I'm also not going away. I'm obnoxiously persistent, Weyrwoman, so if you won't help me, I'll just have to keep looking until I figure things out on my own. Frankly," notebook to satchel, "I'd recommend you start spinning better yarns, though, because 'they look strikingly similar' is a little threadbare."
"You'll go away, M'try." Nenita tells him with assurance and her foot nudges the black and orange rug beneath their feet. "Ista is a proud weyr. We don't like being accused of things that we're not guilty of." All the while her smile remains in place, unfaltering. "Is it? Because I thought it was rather good. Your questionable eyes and possibly prejudiced mind against my word protecting a well known man, with a good reputation? If anything, you're the one whose story might need some work. Good luck."
M'try, innocent look toward the ceiling; "I haven't actually accused anyone of anything, ma'am." Beat. "No, I take that back. I have come very close to accusing you of lying, true, and I imagine I'll have to answer for that eventually, but I'll take my chances." His questionable eyes narrow for a moment while he re-laces the clasp of his satchel, though his expression is right back to serene by the time he backs his chair away from the table, stands. "Again, thank you so much for your time. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again."
"I admire your tenacity. If this were a different time or place, I might be able to say that I like you." Of course M'try is very clearly on the other side of the enemy fence. She pushes her chair back, stands and goes to collect the papers that were spread out across the table from earlier. Her attention is on them now, "You're welcome, I look forward to it." Her eyes flicker up at some point before he makes it out the door to leave, "But, M'try? Stay away from my riders. Direct your little inquiries to me."
M'try stops for a second, starts to say something, and stops himself to smile instead, a backward glance to make sure that Nenita knows he's smiling and not making some gross face at her or anything. "Of course. Granted, if I see anyone who just happens to /look/ like one of your riders, I'll have to be sure to have a bit of a palaver with him so that it's not just another case of mistaken identity. --Shall I go, or did you want to reword that edict?" Listing toward the exit.
Nenita watches him silently now, hands hovering over the papers on top of the table. The tone she uses now sounds like it's long suffering. "Have a good afternoon, M'try." If her eyes roll up just a little before they go back to work, who can blame her, right? Right.
Hey, at least he didn't point out that she neglected to mention her /residents/. But, yes, no one would blame her. He can be an insufferable little bastard, it's true.
IC Date: 13/5/21
Dragon> To Safriath, Mohraith should learn to introduce himself. Or say hi. Or even just /not be as loud as possible all the time/. << WE HAVE SOME QUESTIONS! >> It's like a five-car pile-up at rush hour, the crash-bang-thrum of this brown's mind.
Dragon> To Mohraith, Safriath is out sunning and relaxing. Safriath doesn't like weird, loud dragons from other places. These feelings are not restrained as she allows the full weight of her irritation to seep through like poison to Mohraith. << You have an inside voice too, please use it. >>
Dragon> Maybe it's just to prove a point, but this one's even louder. << WHAT IS AN INSIDE VOICE?!!? >> As if with volume alone he could bridge the distance between Ista and Fort. Mohraith's not oblivious to the irritation he's managed to pique in the gold, of course, but he seems sort of... comfortable with it. Like, pissing off other dragons, especially ones who aren't brace for his particular LOUDNESS, is just par for the course. (Mohraith to Safriath)
Dragon> To Mohraith, Safriath gathers up and that seeping from before gathers up into a fist that clunks straight down his consciousness. Irrational, senseless distaste for this brown that she doesn't know as well as an underlying message of 'useyourgoddmaninsidevoice' or 'i'llsquishyoulikeabug'. << What questions? >>
Dragon> To Safriath, Mohraith withdraws for a time after that sucker punch, his poor mental presence all licking his wounds for a time and likely getting shoved back into the ring whether he likes it or not. While 'you gotta cut me, Mick' might be braver, it's more like 'just go back in there and talk to her, you big baby.' More like rush-hour without the twisted metal of a mammoth traffic accident, still loud with the rumble of machinery and busy-ness, he answers, << A lot. M'try wants to know if your rider is decent. >> No, wait, that's not right. That's /usually/ right, but this time-- << M'try wants to know if he can talk to her. >> It's really like having an interpreter that takes a lot of poetic license.
Dragon> To Mohraith, Safriath isn't very subtle, there's definitely an aura of gloating to her when he returns subdued. She listens though with a kind of cocked-eyebrow expectation, mental stare going wide at the question of decency. << She's- >> An abrupt stop there and some silence as she withdraws herself. Upon returning, << She'll be in the meeting room at our Weyr. >> A crisp series of visuals is sent to him. Bowl. Stairs to ledges. Door to meeting room. << You can stay on the rim of the bowl. >>
Dragon> Look, you'll just have to forgive Mohraith but-- << HOW WILL M'TRY GET DOWN TO THE BOWL IF I'M ON THE RIM?! >> Splat? He doesn't like this thought, thanks. (Mohraith to Safriath)
Dragon> To Mohraith, Safriath's response is simply stunned disbelief. Can this dragon really be that stupid? She doesn't give him any clarification on what to do. Just leaves him shaking her head.
Meeting Room, Ista Weyr
Clean, bold lines give the meeting room an air of formality. Oval is a recurring shape here, echoed in the simple chandelier that hangs from the high rounded ceiling, the beautiful oak table that rests directly beneath it and the dark orange rug with black fringe that covers the center of the floor. A dozen wooden chairs surround the table and extras stand waiting along each wall. To soften the effect of stone and wood, an old tapestry hangs on the west side of the room with shelves of scrolls and a stocked sideboard located across from it. There are sconces for torches or glows set into the stone walls at regular intervals.
A heavy door leads out to the lower caverns and a more private, curtained passage holds the stairs up the Weyrleaders' ledges.
Nenita may have been here before Mohraith's request for conference or she might not have been. Some papers are spread across the large table, busy work if anything. But that's not where the goldrider is. Instead she's at that little cabinet, moving the few bottles that are in there. Her expression is curious as if she's never really opened it up and seen what was inside before. Now and again she glances over her shoulder to the entrance, waiting.
Outside, Mohraith ANNOUNCES HIS PRESENCE to any and every dragon that might be listening, and a few that probably weren't but will be now. Having had things explained, he touches down but briefly, deposits his rider with his coat (quickly shucked) and his satchel (omni-present), and goes right back up to the rim where he belongs. Plus, it's a good place to sit and watch stuff. "Thank you for seeing me, Weyrwoman," is M'try's prompt greeting, having half-jogged his way over here, stopping in the door for a second to get the lay of the land. Which leads into him, with his eyes on the orange-and-black rug, asking, "Just in case someone forgets where they are?"
Nenita is down there still, but stops her rifling when M'try finally arrives in the room. She looks over her shoulder again and then down to the rug. "I guess. I wasn't part of the interior decorating that decided to put that there. Not your style?" Curious as she gets to her feet, dusting her hands off on her pants. The nearest seat to her is pulled out and she sits down, looking up at him questioningly. "Are you going to show me more pictures?"
"It just seems like it's trying to make a point that I'm not sure needs to be made," M'try explains, steps forward so that his toe nudges the edge of the rug in question and folds a corner over itself, exposing the underside of the orange-and-black weave. Anyway. Looking up, smiling without shame or hesitation, he answers, "Yes. Are you going to invite me to sit down?" That question imitates the cadence of Nenita's own query with what usually winds up being irritating precision, quite the little mimic.
"Perhaps. But maybe not. After all, it's just a rug." Nenita shrugs her shoulders. The state of affairs with the floor's decorations don't seem particularly urgen to her. Dropping an elbow onto the table she looks up at him with interest, her eyes flicking to the satchel hanging over his shoulder. The other free hand waves to the seats across from her. "Take which everyone you want to."
M'try flicks the folded corner back the way it's supposed to go with a quick swipe of the bottom of his foot, the same moment used to drape his coat over the back of one of the chairs. This is not the same chair that he sits in, as he elects to take the one right on Nenita's left instead, pulling that satchel up over his neck and sliding it onto the table as he goes. "Thank you. Your hospitality knows no bounds." He conveniently ducks to open the satchel and hide the smirk that accompanies the remark. "I'm fairly sure you'll recognize the gentleman in question this time, at least. I'd merely like a name to go with the face," he explains conversationally while he looks for the correct notebook (and not the one full of porn, important distinction).
Nenita slides her chair just far enough away from the weyrling so that they both have a comfortable amount of personal space. Her elbow finds its placement on the table again, allowing her hand the opportunity to lend her head some sort support. Eyebrows lift and she smiles close-lipped at the remark on hospitality. "What makes you so certain?" Just enough honest sounding curiosity to make it seem like it could be genuine.
M'try looks up from what he's doing long enough to hold Nenita's eyes, if she's not going to duck the look, and answer with undue gravity; "Because I have good instincts." He opens his sketchbook several pages too early, definitely not an accident, and flips through those first pages-- a large island seen from above; a bird's-eye-view of a rocky cove, complete with one large ship; some far-off views of one Farshon and one Toothy Lou; L'hai, rendered in clean detail; finally-- "This one." Ch'son, from afar alas, but discernible.
Those pages, flipped through too early do little to ruffle Nenita's feathers. Her eyes linger on the pictures of Farshon and Toothy Lou however, in a way that suggests she's thinking on something. Whether or not it's recognition is up to personal perception. She stares hard then at the sketch of the bronzerider, squinting then as if she's trying hard to place him a look of concentration crossing her features. But then, "Actually. If I may?" Her hand comes, hovering just above the corner of the notebook with the intent to turn a page carefully back. If allowed she'll flip back to those two pirates.
Whether or not M'try perceives it as recognition is also up to personal perception; the kid mostly just keeps staring at Nenita all the while, one hand possessively on the spine of the sketchbook. His fingers twitch at her question, tap on that spine for a second, and then withdraw with pointed reluctance, index finger sliding it a little more toward the goldrider to indicate the relinquishing of control. "By all means."
She'd pushed her chair back and away from M'try before, but now she's back pulling it disarmingly close to where the weyrling sits. Messy hair is brushed back with a careless flick of her fingers, tucked behind her hair. She takes the relinquished notebook and flips the pages back, not bothering to look at the others and stopping instead at those other men. Her index finger comes down and stops before she touches it, trying to avoid blurring the pages, right over Toothy Lou. "Him. Last spring when we had that storm, our weyr was bloated with out of work sailors, dockhands. He took to bullying some of the girls down at the Seven, barmaids at the Sandbar. Brutal, really. He's not permitted to come to Ista again."
Disarming is all a matter of opinion. Since generally women are busy getting pissed off at him, M'try can't find it in him to complain, though that might also have to do with his focus being on the matter at hand. "Interesting," is his comment toward the back-story of Toothy Lou, brows knitting together for a few moments afterward like he's putting some things in order in his mind. "Strange, then, that one of your bronzeriders still has business with him, don't you think?" The musing quality is a sliver shy of totally believable, so close to sound honest that the falling-short stands out that much more. "But, back to my original question, who is the other one?" He indicates, with a bending of his fingers, that she should go forward those few pages again, please?
"It would be strange if one of my bronzeriders had business with him. It would be most disconcerting and the bronzerider in question would have to be punished most severely." Nenita says with ease, flipping the page over to the sketch of Ch'son again. "I don't tolerate such flagrant disobediance in my weyr." When the page is back into view, she tips her head back up at him and smiles, friendly and apologetic. "But this isn't one of my riders, bronze or otherwise. I'm sorry that once again I'm of little help to you." So sorry.
"Good," M'try says, smiling in a very thin way. "I'm glad he's not one of your riders. The other one, though. L'hai?" He reaches back across to the pages, peels up a corner-- not that one, not the next one, ah yes. The one of L'hai, right down there amid all that whatever-it-is-they're-doing. "He certainly is. Punished most severely," he repeats, brow twitched upward for the words as if to question that Nenita really meant it as badly as it sounded.
There's an incredulous laugh from Nenita when the page is flipped to the one of the L'hai. Her eyes sweep from the page up to the weyrling and her grin is broad, another almost tap of her finger to paper. "Kolniveth's rider? He's one of my bronzeriders, yes. And we're most intimately acquainted. However, he's the last person I would suspect to be connected to any sort of... activity invoving that other fellow. Whoever told you this is L'hai is most certainly mistaken. I'm sorry you were given a mis-identification." She closes his notebook gently and hands it back to him.
M'try leans his head forward a second, tilted to one side, like he's really got to cock an ear to hear this particular tale. After one false start, one breath taken when there's nothing after it except a pause to reorder his thoughts, he says quite reasonably, "Madam, I know that it's L'hai. I've met him personally. I assure you, my eyes are never deceived. Now, if you find it far-fetched that he's involved with these other gentlemen, I can respect that, but it /is/ him." He changes the angle of the book slightly, as if a second look might be in order.
Nenita smiles sweetly at the brownrider and levels him with a type of look. The type of look a mother gives a child who's clearly confused on something and she doesn't want to correct him too harshly. "I think you were out poking around. You got your blood all heated up, thought you saw someone, L'hai. You've met him before. Then you saw this person." Her hand waves to his notebook. "Perhaps they look strikingly similar to the eyes. I don't know, I wasn't there." Her shoulders lift. "You hop on your dragon and fly home. Do some drawings, leap to some conclusions. False conclusions. I know L'hai. I don't know the true clarity of your sight despite your assurances." Her hand comes out to stop anymore flipping pages. "You're mistaken." Calm!
"Oh, I was most certainly poking around," M'try admits without hesitation, lacking apology, though the rest of Nenita's explanation has him take a deep, disappointed breath that ends with him shaking his head. "I'm not mistaken." But he takes the book back, sliding it out from beneath her fingers and closing it with unmistakable aplomb. "I'm also not going away. I'm obnoxiously persistent, Weyrwoman, so if you won't help me, I'll just have to keep looking until I figure things out on my own. Frankly," notebook to satchel, "I'd recommend you start spinning better yarns, though, because 'they look strikingly similar' is a little threadbare."
"You'll go away, M'try." Nenita tells him with assurance and her foot nudges the black and orange rug beneath their feet. "Ista is a proud weyr. We don't like being accused of things that we're not guilty of." All the while her smile remains in place, unfaltering. "Is it? Because I thought it was rather good. Your questionable eyes and possibly prejudiced mind against my word protecting a well known man, with a good reputation? If anything, you're the one whose story might need some work. Good luck."
M'try, innocent look toward the ceiling; "I haven't actually accused anyone of anything, ma'am." Beat. "No, I take that back. I have come very close to accusing you of lying, true, and I imagine I'll have to answer for that eventually, but I'll take my chances." His questionable eyes narrow for a moment while he re-laces the clasp of his satchel, though his expression is right back to serene by the time he backs his chair away from the table, stands. "Again, thank you so much for your time. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again."
"I admire your tenacity. If this were a different time or place, I might be able to say that I like you." Of course M'try is very clearly on the other side of the enemy fence. She pushes her chair back, stands and goes to collect the papers that were spread out across the table from earlier. Her attention is on them now, "You're welcome, I look forward to it." Her eyes flicker up at some point before he makes it out the door to leave, "But, M'try? Stay away from my riders. Direct your little inquiries to me."
M'try stops for a second, starts to say something, and stops himself to smile instead, a backward glance to make sure that Nenita knows he's smiling and not making some gross face at her or anything. "Of course. Granted, if I see anyone who just happens to /look/ like one of your riders, I'll have to be sure to have a bit of a palaver with him so that it's not just another case of mistaken identity. --Shall I go, or did you want to reword that edict?" Listing toward the exit.
Nenita watches him silently now, hands hovering over the papers on top of the table. The tone she uses now sounds like it's long suffering. "Have a good afternoon, M'try." If her eyes roll up just a little before they go back to work, who can blame her, right? Right.
Hey, at least he didn't point out that she neglected to mention her /residents/. But, yes, no one would blame her. He can be an insufferable little bastard, it's true.