[Evaly] Two-thirds of my alts have seen T'mic naked within an hour of meeting him.
RL Date: 3/24/10
IC Date: 4/16/22
Garden and Pool, Ista Weyr(#456RJ)
From bowl to waterfall, the gardens of Ista stretch out across the plateau. Nearest the bowl are the practical plants--the herbs and crops and an orchard of fruit trees--but the closer to the stream one ventures, the more fanciful the foliage becomes. Lush dark leaves, flowers as big as a hand, jungle creepers hanging from old-growth trees--like most of Ista, the plant life grows rampant here, everything outsized and richly green. The streambanks in particular are impressively overgrown, until every rock is moss-covered and pockets of still water in pools on the banks teem with algae.
Only the waterfall itself seems to have escaped the onslaught of flora, cutting a channel through the rock and falling toward the pool below. The craggy cliffs leading downward post a number of places to sit and swing your feet, or to wade in the shallow puddles that collect in dips in rocks and around the edges of the water. For all the cliffs and their outcroppings, however, the best way down is still the steep, slick stairs switchbacking down the rock face.
In the midst of the garden lawn, a large pavillion sits, often a hub of activity in the area.
There be Evaly, just now getting re-dressed by the looks of things, buttoning up her pants and then clapping her hands all along them to rid little bits of grit. That done, she sits back down at the edge of the pool-puddle-thing, rolling up the legs of those pants to about knee-height before she sticks her feet right on in the water. Ambition and industry are nowhere to be found today, just sunbathing and feet-soaking.
A dragon's shadow passes overhead, not surprising around a Weyr, certainly, and only truly distinguishable from a cloud by the distinct shape. But it's on foot that a man enters, knotless and sweaty but whistling nonetheless. "Afternoon!" he offers cheerfully as he sets about stripping down, absolutely unabashed about undressing in front of company, and equally immodest about watching Evaly as he does. "Nice day, isn't it?"
Mic has an affable, tooth-flashing grin that he uses like some men wield grunts and blank stares. His hair is nearly black - in bright sun it shows auburn highlights - and tightly curled despite being cropped close to his skull. His skin is perpetually tan with only a few scars from acne and childhood. Apart from smallish ears the rest of his features are unremarkable: muddy blue eyes are set neither too far apart nor too close; his nose has just the slightest hint of a ski-jump; a strong, blunt chin. Though he possesses a workingman's broad muscular shoulders and arms, the rest of him is trim. He's short, standing a little more than a hand under six feet tall, and his age is probably somewhere in his thirties. Southern's easy-going vowels run unchecked through every word.
He wears sturdy, comfortable clothing, suitable for working in. His shirt is a heavy cotton weave of dark orange and brown that doesn't show stains, while his equally durable pants are faded black. Boots that come just over his ankle complete the outfit. A simple rider's knot is affixed to his shoulder, Ista's orange and black with a single strand of green.
Evaly looks up, starts to answer the greeting with one of her own, realizes T'mic's in the middle of taking off all his clothes, and winds up only able to comment on his last remark in a nonplussed way; "Yes." It is a nice day. She averts her eyes for a good few seconds, looking intently at her feet in the water, and finally risks a look back toward T'mic-- face specifically. "Don't you worry about getting sunburned? I would worry." Hence all the clothes?
"Nah." Mic waves off her concern with an easy grin and steps out of his shorts before tossing them on top of the rest of his clothes. That taken care of, he heads straight into the water with a whoop and, "Cold!" before sluicing water over his face and shoulders. "Haven't gotten burned in, oh, turns. Have to fall asleep on the beach to do it. You, though...." He's casually forward about giving her a once-over, head to soggy toes and back. "Say, you look sort of familiar. You've been around the Weyr for a while?"
Just prior to that whoop, Evaly gets out, "It's--" But T'mic finds out for himself, so she just looks impressed while he gets himself acclimated without her help. Though she does kick her feet some, generating warmth through entropy or something. "Don't let the blond fool you," she answers, finding her stride now that the blatant nudity is submerged. "I don't sunburn. But I have been here since Turnover, give or take. I usually try to get in the introductions before getting acquainted with a person's backside, but-- I'm Evaly."
"/Really/." Mic gives her another look, just in case the sunburn's suddenly appeared or something, and paddles over to offer up his hand. "Mic. T'mic. Backside, frontside, s'all the same to me. Weyrbred." His teeth flash again before he adds, "Sorry," because Evaly is... not. "Welcome to Ista, then, even if it's late. I'm usually pretty bad with names, so I might have to ask you yours a few more times. Evaly. S'really pretty."
Evaly takes the hand without hesitation, since it's just a hand, and answers the 'weyrbred' with an amused, "No, really?" A sideways look finds his pile of clothes, then back to T'mic while she's wiping off her now damp palm on her pants. "Nice to meet you, T'mic. It's good to have a name to go with the... face." She flashes an aren't-I-clever smile then, adding, "But don't apologize. Just don't hit on me and we'll call it even? It's getting old."
"I," T'mic says with at least an attempt at sadness, "hit on everybody. But I don't mean it unless you want me to." Still, he seems willing enough to back - or swim - off, out of easy splashing distance to where he can tread water. "I'll do my best to remember, though. So what do you do around here, Evaly? --I should add," so he does, "that Aath's my green and I'm weyrmated, just to get all that in the open."
Only half-serious, Evaly counters, "Everybody? Then that means the role of the Exception to the Rule is open, and I'd like to submit myself for consideration." Leaning back on her hands again, since T'mic is being polite and swimming off and she's safe to go back to sunbathing (with all her clothes on, whatever)-- "You're not sure that you can remember my name, but you just supplied me with half your life story. Hmn. Anyway, I sell things. Perfume, soap, pretty baubles. Are you a man of means, perhaps?"
T'mic says, "Well, almost everybody. What's the Exception to the Rule?" he wonders curiously. Before she can answer he holds up a wait-a-minute finger, slides under the water and engages in some pretty furious hair cleaning before emerging with a gasp. "Huh? Oh, not half. Trust me, I can talk for lots longer." When she lists what she sells he decidedly perks up and drifts closer. "...Yes? Sort of. Paddy laughs at me 'cause I never have marks, but that's because I spend them on people. You sound like just the woman Aath would adore. /HAH/!" Triumphant yell, exuberant splash (toward the center of the pool, thankfully, and not her). "I -knew- I'd seen you! At the market, right?"
Evaly pulls her legs back from the water anyway, even if the splash wasn't coming her way, though she quickly re-submerges her feet when it's clear that she's safe, whew! "Yes." There's a look around her immediate vicinity, hands finally coming to rest on a crown of vines and flowers-- starting to wilt in the sun-- that's next to what one can assume are her shoes. "I feel like I ought to have a prize for you," since he seems so pleased with himself. "Here?" Crown offered out at arm's length. "And if I sound like the type of woman Aath would adore, then you sound like the type of man I would adore." Necessary: "As a customer."
The greenrider obligingly paddles over to be crowned whether she does it or he has to place the semi-wilted greenery on his head himself. "Very likely," he agrees, grinning up at her like a semi-demented satyr. "I like buying things for people. Though," he adds, sobering a touch, "you might want to consider selling somewhere besides the market. I usually go to Gathers or straight to the crafthalls. The market's got a reputation for being cheap - and I don't mean 'not many marks'. I've had too many things fall apart on me, and when I go back to get them fixed, the seller is long-gone."
Bravely, Evaly will do it for him, even turns it so one drooping posey isn't hanging directly in his eyes. "It's very fetching," she says seriously, back to leaning on her hands again, ignoring the satyrism for T'mic's more serious comments. "I can see where it gets the reputation, and I appreciate the advice. Truth be told, selling things isn't really my life's ambition, it just happens to be something that I'm good at. If you need a little buying confidence, I've been here-- what? Four months now? There are good odds that I won't disappear any time soon."
True to his word, Mic doesn't so much as try and help, though one dripping hand comes up to flower-straighten before she takes care of it herself. "Thanks," says the man who can no longer either swim or wash his hair. "Never can tell when 'something you're good at' will turn into 'what you do', though. Look at me," though she'd rather not, and the water hides nearly everything, "I started off on the docks, Impressed, and now here I am back on the docks. Okay, so it took ten - twelve? something like that - turns, but there you go." Whereupon he nods like that makes sense.
In a 'how does that work' tone, Evaly concludes, "So you're a dragonrider and a dock-worker?" What she can see of T'mic, shoulders and stuff, at least convinces her that he's not /lying/ about his side-profession, but she still seems confused about the pairing. When it occurs to her, she chuckles and comments, "Two jobs and no money. Perhaps you're in the wrong line/s/ of work." Stress the plural.
T'mic nods: he is! "It's something Nita and And- uh, the Weyrwoman and Weyrleader came up with. Something about how they didn't want all us riders just lazing about after drills. So we're all - well, most of us - doing what we did before we Impressed. Like Paddy, P'draig. He used to be a Baker, and now he's got a Journeyman's knot and a restaurant. The Beach House? I help him down there when it's open, and work on the docks when it's not, but my first, um, priority? Is still Aath."
"/Three/ jobs, then? How do you even find the time for...?" Evaly trails off, waves her hand to indicate the skinny-dipping that occupies T'mic at the moment, never mind the 'hitting on everybody' aspects of his day-to-day life. "Do you think that all this extra work is better than the lazing would be? Because, I'll be honest, the one job I'm supposed to be doing is quite enough for me." She makes a display of turning her face to the sun and kicking her submerged feet, very not hard work.
T'mic says, "It's not like I'm at the docks every day," protesting faintly. "But no, I'd rather be lazing about. Also, a lot of riders - like Solla, my daughter - Impressed as teenagers. Kids. Some of them were barely old enough to apprentice. So what are they assigned to do, now that they're riders? Grunt work. Folding laundry, washing dishes. Not what they expected, when they agreed to Stand." He shrugs, one hand coming up to keep his crown steady. "I don't know, I think people ought to be able to volunteer for the extra shifts, not just have them assigned. Still," he shakes off his mood with another quick grin, "What do I know, right? So what brings you to the Weyr, besides selling things? Do you make them too?"
Evaly watches his attention to the crown for a few seconds, containing her amusement that he'd even bother to care, eyes returning to T'mic's face with a blink. "It does seem a little wasteful to have dragonriders--" She throws the awe and reverence of the holdbred in there, exaggerated to make the point. "--folding laundry. But it explains why I saw the Weyrwoman fixing tables in the living cavern, come to think of it." A weak laugh later, she seems surprised by his question. "Nothing else brings me to the Weyr. Just selling things. We can't all have three jobs."
T'mic spreads his hand, what can you do, legs undoubtedly thrashing frantically to keep him as steady as he is. "We don't all -want- three jobs. Well, except for Paddy, maybe. I have to sit on him to get him to stop, sometimes," he says fondly, eyes going momentarily distant. "Huh. Well, where do you get your things? 'Cause I was just thinking, if you need to travel somewhere to pick them up, me and Aath could take you. For a discount on the final product, of course. Aath /loves/ pretty things, and being made a fuss of, but like I said, I'm not made of marks."
"That would be a great idea, except that everything that I start out with comes from my father. I'm just the front-end for his business, I suppose you'd say." Evaly pins an apology to her smile, sorry to have to decline the offer but clearly unable to do otherwise. "If I'm connecting the dots right," she continues, squinting thoughtfully across the water at T'mic. "Then P'draig is your weyrmate is the proprietor of the Beach House? Perhaps if you could get me the occasional family discount, I could do the same in return."
The greenrider scoots a few feet backward, a few feet forward, like pacing except for the swimming part. "Ah," he verbally finger-snaps: too bad. "Huh? Yeah, that's right. Paddy, P'draig, brownrider and weyrmate and journeyman baker and Beach House." And Evaly thought -Mic- had a lot of jobs. "I don't see why not. Have to check with Paddy, of course. He might even be willing to do a trade. Four beachberry pies for half a dozen trinkets, or something like that."
Evaly pulls her feet out of the water, this time like she means it, and perches them up on the lip of the pool in front of her, letting them drip-dry while she rolls down her pant-legs. "Find out for sure, and we might just have a good deal for both of us. Anything," with rolled eyes, "to avoid another meal of seafood in the living cavern." With one sandal on, she pauses to point out, "Ironically, the half-dozen trinkets are all apt to be of the 'pretty shell' variety. Oh well."
"Towel's over there if you want it," Mic points out, inclining his head toward his mound of temporarily discarded clothing. "--Hah. Well, Paddy does good fish, but let him know you're about to grow gills. I'm sure he'll do something with feet for you." He bobs for a moment, rearing out of the water to give her a good look before sinking back. "Pretty shells aren't bad, but what Aath likes are -shiny-. Or just marks. ...Huh." A thought strikes him, dragging his attention inward again.
"I don't think anyone ever died from damp toes, but thank you," says Evaly when it comes to the towel, finishing her second shoe and then smacking her pant legs so some of the wrinkles from being all rolled up shake loose. "If I come across anything especially shiny that's seems worth about four beachberry pies, I will absolutely put it aside for your Aath. In the meantime..." She trails off, allowing T'mic the chance to clarify that 'huh' if he wants, or implying the impending farewell otherwise.
T'mic huhs again, this time aimed at Evaly; after a second he grins. "What? Oh, sorry. I was just thinking. It was nice meeting you, Evaly," with an extra bit of stress on the name. Maybe he'll remember it now? "I'd, um, give you a better farewell, but I think you'd rather I stayed in the water." Accompanied by another bright smile, entirely unbothered by her mores. "So I'll see you around, and can't wait to see you at the Beach House."
Evaly means it; "Thank you. That's considerate of you." Maybe to help some other poor soul later on, she scoops up T'mic's towel and puts it right over where she was sitting before-- you know, within arm's reach of the water. "It was nice to meet you, too, T'mic. Dock-worker, greenrider, waiter, and weyrmate." Did she get them all? "Not necessarily in that order." With very clean feet, she strolls off to maybe do a bit of business before this fine day expires.
IC Date: 4/16/22
Garden and Pool, Ista Weyr(#456RJ)
From bowl to waterfall, the gardens of Ista stretch out across the plateau. Nearest the bowl are the practical plants--the herbs and crops and an orchard of fruit trees--but the closer to the stream one ventures, the more fanciful the foliage becomes. Lush dark leaves, flowers as big as a hand, jungle creepers hanging from old-growth trees--like most of Ista, the plant life grows rampant here, everything outsized and richly green. The streambanks in particular are impressively overgrown, until every rock is moss-covered and pockets of still water in pools on the banks teem with algae.
Only the waterfall itself seems to have escaped the onslaught of flora, cutting a channel through the rock and falling toward the pool below. The craggy cliffs leading downward post a number of places to sit and swing your feet, or to wade in the shallow puddles that collect in dips in rocks and around the edges of the water. For all the cliffs and their outcroppings, however, the best way down is still the steep, slick stairs switchbacking down the rock face.
In the midst of the garden lawn, a large pavillion sits, often a hub of activity in the area.
There be Evaly, just now getting re-dressed by the looks of things, buttoning up her pants and then clapping her hands all along them to rid little bits of grit. That done, she sits back down at the edge of the pool-puddle-thing, rolling up the legs of those pants to about knee-height before she sticks her feet right on in the water. Ambition and industry are nowhere to be found today, just sunbathing and feet-soaking.
A dragon's shadow passes overhead, not surprising around a Weyr, certainly, and only truly distinguishable from a cloud by the distinct shape. But it's on foot that a man enters, knotless and sweaty but whistling nonetheless. "Afternoon!" he offers cheerfully as he sets about stripping down, absolutely unabashed about undressing in front of company, and equally immodest about watching Evaly as he does. "Nice day, isn't it?"
Mic has an affable, tooth-flashing grin that he uses like some men wield grunts and blank stares. His hair is nearly black - in bright sun it shows auburn highlights - and tightly curled despite being cropped close to his skull. His skin is perpetually tan with only a few scars from acne and childhood. Apart from smallish ears the rest of his features are unremarkable: muddy blue eyes are set neither too far apart nor too close; his nose has just the slightest hint of a ski-jump; a strong, blunt chin. Though he possesses a workingman's broad muscular shoulders and arms, the rest of him is trim. He's short, standing a little more than a hand under six feet tall, and his age is probably somewhere in his thirties. Southern's easy-going vowels run unchecked through every word.
He wears sturdy, comfortable clothing, suitable for working in. His shirt is a heavy cotton weave of dark orange and brown that doesn't show stains, while his equally durable pants are faded black. Boots that come just over his ankle complete the outfit. A simple rider's knot is affixed to his shoulder, Ista's orange and black with a single strand of green.
Evaly looks up, starts to answer the greeting with one of her own, realizes T'mic's in the middle of taking off all his clothes, and winds up only able to comment on his last remark in a nonplussed way; "Yes." It is a nice day. She averts her eyes for a good few seconds, looking intently at her feet in the water, and finally risks a look back toward T'mic-- face specifically. "Don't you worry about getting sunburned? I would worry." Hence all the clothes?
"Nah." Mic waves off her concern with an easy grin and steps out of his shorts before tossing them on top of the rest of his clothes. That taken care of, he heads straight into the water with a whoop and, "Cold!" before sluicing water over his face and shoulders. "Haven't gotten burned in, oh, turns. Have to fall asleep on the beach to do it. You, though...." He's casually forward about giving her a once-over, head to soggy toes and back. "Say, you look sort of familiar. You've been around the Weyr for a while?"
Just prior to that whoop, Evaly gets out, "It's--" But T'mic finds out for himself, so she just looks impressed while he gets himself acclimated without her help. Though she does kick her feet some, generating warmth through entropy or something. "Don't let the blond fool you," she answers, finding her stride now that the blatant nudity is submerged. "I don't sunburn. But I have been here since Turnover, give or take. I usually try to get in the introductions before getting acquainted with a person's backside, but-- I'm Evaly."
"/Really/." Mic gives her another look, just in case the sunburn's suddenly appeared or something, and paddles over to offer up his hand. "Mic. T'mic. Backside, frontside, s'all the same to me. Weyrbred." His teeth flash again before he adds, "Sorry," because Evaly is... not. "Welcome to Ista, then, even if it's late. I'm usually pretty bad with names, so I might have to ask you yours a few more times. Evaly. S'really pretty."
Evaly takes the hand without hesitation, since it's just a hand, and answers the 'weyrbred' with an amused, "No, really?" A sideways look finds his pile of clothes, then back to T'mic while she's wiping off her now damp palm on her pants. "Nice to meet you, T'mic. It's good to have a name to go with the... face." She flashes an aren't-I-clever smile then, adding, "But don't apologize. Just don't hit on me and we'll call it even? It's getting old."
"I," T'mic says with at least an attempt at sadness, "hit on everybody. But I don't mean it unless you want me to." Still, he seems willing enough to back - or swim - off, out of easy splashing distance to where he can tread water. "I'll do my best to remember, though. So what do you do around here, Evaly? --I should add," so he does, "that Aath's my green and I'm weyrmated, just to get all that in the open."
Only half-serious, Evaly counters, "Everybody? Then that means the role of the Exception to the Rule is open, and I'd like to submit myself for consideration." Leaning back on her hands again, since T'mic is being polite and swimming off and she's safe to go back to sunbathing (with all her clothes on, whatever)-- "You're not sure that you can remember my name, but you just supplied me with half your life story. Hmn. Anyway, I sell things. Perfume, soap, pretty baubles. Are you a man of means, perhaps?"
T'mic says, "Well, almost everybody. What's the Exception to the Rule?" he wonders curiously. Before she can answer he holds up a wait-a-minute finger, slides under the water and engages in some pretty furious hair cleaning before emerging with a gasp. "Huh? Oh, not half. Trust me, I can talk for lots longer." When she lists what she sells he decidedly perks up and drifts closer. "...Yes? Sort of. Paddy laughs at me 'cause I never have marks, but that's because I spend them on people. You sound like just the woman Aath would adore. /HAH/!" Triumphant yell, exuberant splash (toward the center of the pool, thankfully, and not her). "I -knew- I'd seen you! At the market, right?"
Evaly pulls her legs back from the water anyway, even if the splash wasn't coming her way, though she quickly re-submerges her feet when it's clear that she's safe, whew! "Yes." There's a look around her immediate vicinity, hands finally coming to rest on a crown of vines and flowers-- starting to wilt in the sun-- that's next to what one can assume are her shoes. "I feel like I ought to have a prize for you," since he seems so pleased with himself. "Here?" Crown offered out at arm's length. "And if I sound like the type of woman Aath would adore, then you sound like the type of man I would adore." Necessary: "As a customer."
The greenrider obligingly paddles over to be crowned whether she does it or he has to place the semi-wilted greenery on his head himself. "Very likely," he agrees, grinning up at her like a semi-demented satyr. "I like buying things for people. Though," he adds, sobering a touch, "you might want to consider selling somewhere besides the market. I usually go to Gathers or straight to the crafthalls. The market's got a reputation for being cheap - and I don't mean 'not many marks'. I've had too many things fall apart on me, and when I go back to get them fixed, the seller is long-gone."
Bravely, Evaly will do it for him, even turns it so one drooping posey isn't hanging directly in his eyes. "It's very fetching," she says seriously, back to leaning on her hands again, ignoring the satyrism for T'mic's more serious comments. "I can see where it gets the reputation, and I appreciate the advice. Truth be told, selling things isn't really my life's ambition, it just happens to be something that I'm good at. If you need a little buying confidence, I've been here-- what? Four months now? There are good odds that I won't disappear any time soon."
True to his word, Mic doesn't so much as try and help, though one dripping hand comes up to flower-straighten before she takes care of it herself. "Thanks," says the man who can no longer either swim or wash his hair. "Never can tell when 'something you're good at' will turn into 'what you do', though. Look at me," though she'd rather not, and the water hides nearly everything, "I started off on the docks, Impressed, and now here I am back on the docks. Okay, so it took ten - twelve? something like that - turns, but there you go." Whereupon he nods like that makes sense.
In a 'how does that work' tone, Evaly concludes, "So you're a dragonrider and a dock-worker?" What she can see of T'mic, shoulders and stuff, at least convinces her that he's not /lying/ about his side-profession, but she still seems confused about the pairing. When it occurs to her, she chuckles and comments, "Two jobs and no money. Perhaps you're in the wrong line/s/ of work." Stress the plural.
T'mic nods: he is! "It's something Nita and And- uh, the Weyrwoman and Weyrleader came up with. Something about how they didn't want all us riders just lazing about after drills. So we're all - well, most of us - doing what we did before we Impressed. Like Paddy, P'draig. He used to be a Baker, and now he's got a Journeyman's knot and a restaurant. The Beach House? I help him down there when it's open, and work on the docks when it's not, but my first, um, priority? Is still Aath."
"/Three/ jobs, then? How do you even find the time for...?" Evaly trails off, waves her hand to indicate the skinny-dipping that occupies T'mic at the moment, never mind the 'hitting on everybody' aspects of his day-to-day life. "Do you think that all this extra work is better than the lazing would be? Because, I'll be honest, the one job I'm supposed to be doing is quite enough for me." She makes a display of turning her face to the sun and kicking her submerged feet, very not hard work.
T'mic says, "It's not like I'm at the docks every day," protesting faintly. "But no, I'd rather be lazing about. Also, a lot of riders - like Solla, my daughter - Impressed as teenagers. Kids. Some of them were barely old enough to apprentice. So what are they assigned to do, now that they're riders? Grunt work. Folding laundry, washing dishes. Not what they expected, when they agreed to Stand." He shrugs, one hand coming up to keep his crown steady. "I don't know, I think people ought to be able to volunteer for the extra shifts, not just have them assigned. Still," he shakes off his mood with another quick grin, "What do I know, right? So what brings you to the Weyr, besides selling things? Do you make them too?"
Evaly watches his attention to the crown for a few seconds, containing her amusement that he'd even bother to care, eyes returning to T'mic's face with a blink. "It does seem a little wasteful to have dragonriders--" She throws the awe and reverence of the holdbred in there, exaggerated to make the point. "--folding laundry. But it explains why I saw the Weyrwoman fixing tables in the living cavern, come to think of it." A weak laugh later, she seems surprised by his question. "Nothing else brings me to the Weyr. Just selling things. We can't all have three jobs."
T'mic spreads his hand, what can you do, legs undoubtedly thrashing frantically to keep him as steady as he is. "We don't all -want- three jobs. Well, except for Paddy, maybe. I have to sit on him to get him to stop, sometimes," he says fondly, eyes going momentarily distant. "Huh. Well, where do you get your things? 'Cause I was just thinking, if you need to travel somewhere to pick them up, me and Aath could take you. For a discount on the final product, of course. Aath /loves/ pretty things, and being made a fuss of, but like I said, I'm not made of marks."
"That would be a great idea, except that everything that I start out with comes from my father. I'm just the front-end for his business, I suppose you'd say." Evaly pins an apology to her smile, sorry to have to decline the offer but clearly unable to do otherwise. "If I'm connecting the dots right," she continues, squinting thoughtfully across the water at T'mic. "Then P'draig is your weyrmate is the proprietor of the Beach House? Perhaps if you could get me the occasional family discount, I could do the same in return."
The greenrider scoots a few feet backward, a few feet forward, like pacing except for the swimming part. "Ah," he verbally finger-snaps: too bad. "Huh? Yeah, that's right. Paddy, P'draig, brownrider and weyrmate and journeyman baker and Beach House." And Evaly thought -Mic- had a lot of jobs. "I don't see why not. Have to check with Paddy, of course. He might even be willing to do a trade. Four beachberry pies for half a dozen trinkets, or something like that."
Evaly pulls her feet out of the water, this time like she means it, and perches them up on the lip of the pool in front of her, letting them drip-dry while she rolls down her pant-legs. "Find out for sure, and we might just have a good deal for both of us. Anything," with rolled eyes, "to avoid another meal of seafood in the living cavern." With one sandal on, she pauses to point out, "Ironically, the half-dozen trinkets are all apt to be of the 'pretty shell' variety. Oh well."
"Towel's over there if you want it," Mic points out, inclining his head toward his mound of temporarily discarded clothing. "--Hah. Well, Paddy does good fish, but let him know you're about to grow gills. I'm sure he'll do something with feet for you." He bobs for a moment, rearing out of the water to give her a good look before sinking back. "Pretty shells aren't bad, but what Aath likes are -shiny-. Or just marks. ...Huh." A thought strikes him, dragging his attention inward again.
"I don't think anyone ever died from damp toes, but thank you," says Evaly when it comes to the towel, finishing her second shoe and then smacking her pant legs so some of the wrinkles from being all rolled up shake loose. "If I come across anything especially shiny that's seems worth about four beachberry pies, I will absolutely put it aside for your Aath. In the meantime..." She trails off, allowing T'mic the chance to clarify that 'huh' if he wants, or implying the impending farewell otherwise.
T'mic huhs again, this time aimed at Evaly; after a second he grins. "What? Oh, sorry. I was just thinking. It was nice meeting you, Evaly," with an extra bit of stress on the name. Maybe he'll remember it now? "I'd, um, give you a better farewell, but I think you'd rather I stayed in the water." Accompanied by another bright smile, entirely unbothered by her mores. "So I'll see you around, and can't wait to see you at the Beach House."
Evaly means it; "Thank you. That's considerate of you." Maybe to help some other poor soul later on, she scoops up T'mic's towel and puts it right over where she was sitting before-- you know, within arm's reach of the water. "It was nice to meet you, too, T'mic. Dock-worker, greenrider, waiter, and weyrmate." Did she get them all? "Not necessarily in that order." With very clean feet, she strolls off to maybe do a bit of business before this fine day expires.