[Evaly] Paddy's lifestyle is seriously confusing.
RL Date: 5/30/10
IC Date: 11/22/22
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.
Life, it seems, goes on. The Hatching is over and the Impressed are off in Weyrling Land and the others are... Well, Evaly, anyway, is making good use of the newfound downtime. She's parked in the grass, which is now growing damp with the evening getting later and later, looking like someone who - a few hours ago - had a pretty good setup: a glowbasket, a wineskin, some supper appropriated from the caverns. Now, she looks more wilted, laying on her stomach with her cheek on the heel of her hand, peering at what looks like a smudged, cheap map of the islands, hard enough to read in good light, nigh impossible in this crappy one-glow job of hers.
Wilted would probably describe P'draig pretty well too. The rider's got a towel slung over his shoulder and the air of someone who's dog-tired. But. Girl. Glow basket. "Hey there," he offers over. "Tough day?" Paddy inquires further, pausing in his path toward the pool. His hair is damp, but not by the look of it from swimming or getting clean, but rather from the bottom outward: sweaty, hair spiking a little here and there instead of curling and waving.
More awkward than fetching, Evaly lifts her chin higher, weight braced on the hand beneath her ribs so she can look over her shoulder at whoever's interrupting her long lull here. It's late enough that she probably thought she was pretty well alone for the rest of the night. "I could ask you the same thing," she points out once she's had time to digest the state of P'draig. "But, first, I think I should ask if we're acquainted? Or..." She shoots a look to the wineskin on the grass, sagging in the dew. Or... has she had more than she thinks she has?
"No, we're not, though I saw you on the sands," P'draig notes and sweeps a hand through his hair makes a face. "And it was. I run the Beach House, the restaurant on the beach?" brows lift questioningly: does she know it? "Busy night," the brownrider claims, walking over so she doesn't have to twist so and hunkers down even, though he doesn't sit without invitation.
The invitation can be assumed by the wave to the grass, plenty of it to go around, and she's using only a small section, before Evaly resumes her earlier posture, cheek to palm. "Paddy?" she deduces promptly, answering his implied question afterward-- "Bailey works for you. I've seen your weyrmate naked." The matter-of-fact tone at least illuminates the fact that she doesn't think this is a very big deal, probably a fair few people can say the same.
"Yeah that's right," P'draig confirms and lets his bottom hit the ground, legs folding up beneath him. His towel is draped across his lap, the hand that didn't sweep through his hair held out. "P'draig if you want to be more formal. Brown Jekzith's. And I am utterly unsurprised about Mic," he says candidly, grinning with a note of fondness in his voice. "I'm afraid neither Bailey nor T'mic have mentioned you though."
Evaly repeats, "P'draig," like she's not sure whether it's quite as suiting as Paddy was, surveying him with more light to compare and contrast the two forms of address. No telling where she lands, since she doesn't employ either name after that. "Which, if you think about it, speaks volumes about T'mic. Not quite so much about Bailey. I'm Evaly. And I'd offer a handshake, but it would be awkward." Because of the way she's presently propped. "I had oysters in your restaurant once."
"With Mic ... yeah, he's bad at remembering names so I'd lay odds on 'I met this gloriously hot blonde today' was probably about you if this was several weeks ago," Paddy remarks cheerily enough. His hand drops as she disclaimers shaking and he nods. "Still have them on the menu. Though I'm changing things over for fall, seasonal eats and all that."
"That's flattering," says Evaly, though she doesn't sound especially flattered. Probably because-- "Though 'gloriously hot blonde' might be a little like 'fish in a barrel' around here. Still." Folding her map into fourths with one hand, then pushing up from the way she was to a less utterly lazy seat similar to P'draig's, she stretches on the way up. Probably been there a while. "There are seasons at Ista?" Joke.
"Good point," P'draig acknowledges, grin a quick flash. "Though it is meant as a compliment where T'mic's concerned. He's ... sincere and means well even when his advances aren't always welcome." Beat. "Nice to meet you Evaly." His chin nods towards the map she's folding up. "Learning the local geography?" That's followed by a laugh though as his hands rest lightly atop knees. "Hot and less hot?" he offers up as a joking response.
Evaly, flipping her fingers forward and backward in a brushing motion, "Oh, there weren't any advances. I asked him not to hit on me, and he didn't. Everyone should be so accommodating." Take it as a warning? A suggestion? Certainly, it's not quite casual enough to not have been mentioned without purpose. "No. I'm keeping track of where I've already been. We can't all become waitresses when we run out of money, unless you really need that much staff." Reaching for the wine, which has managed to stay pretty cool in the grass and all, she plops it down in between them in a 'help yourself' way, adding, "The season where your sweat might dry on its own and the season where you better have a cold drink before you expire?"
"Yeah, if you actually tell him no, he's pretty good about that," P'draig agrees. "The problem is /not/ telling him no flat out," the brownrider notes. "Of course if I'd realized that and given him a flat no, we probably wouldn't be together now," he muses then gives a shake of his head, re-focuses. "Actually, I need cheap staff, if you're looking for work. I can't afford to pay all that much right now though, but my other waitress has decided the pastures are greener elsewhere, so I guess it depends on how desperate you are?" The wineskin, offered is acknowledged with a nod and the brownrider picks it up, flips open the top and tilts his head back to have a mouthful, mindful not to actually touch the mouthpiece with his lips. "Exactly," he agrees after he's swallowed and settled the skin between them again. "I'm not from Ista originally and I'm still not used to the subtle distinction between the so-called 'dry' season and the wet.
Evaly, though amused enough to repeat, "Cheap staff," doesn't seem particularly engaged by the offer. In fact, she goes on to add, "Desperate? I may well be. But a waitress?" She shakes her head, looking sagely confident about it. Apparently, desperation has not yet reached the point of drinking really crappy wine, since hers is moderately good. But, then, how hard is it for a gloriously hot blonde (tm) to acquire a wineskin, if you think about it. "I have a theory that it has to do not with the quantity but the size of the raindrops. In the dry season, they're fairly survivable. In the wet season, they're the ones that feel like you're getting pelted by marbles." She casts a dubious look upward, seeing stars instead of clouds, thankfully. "Me, too." From Ista.
"Mm. Bailey's energetic and outgoing, so it suits her pretty well. T'mic plays host part of the time and my daughter Palia pretty regularly. She charms the customers in through the door." Again with the fond amusement. "This isn't half bad," he says of the wine. "I've got some good ones down at the restaurant, to go with the food." He listens to her theory, mouth quirking into a charmed expression. "I think I can buy into that. The rain in summer does seem ... vicious almost. Coming to get you. Drown you where you stand." Breath out. "I was born at High Reaches, impressed at Fort, how about you?"
Dubiously, "And you're trying to hire still another waitress? Business is really so good?" Evaly squints at P'draig, specifically at P'draig's sweat (as much as she can in the dimness), and has to finish with an impressed look. "Admittedly, they were pretty good oysters." Like that's the reason everyone goes there. Obviously. "No, I mean. I am from Ista. Just not here," with a point to the grass right beneath her, like this particular patch of earth specifically. "The Weyr. What in the world would possess someone to move to this water-logged island if they didn't have to?" It would take a local to see 'water-logged' instead of 'paradisical.'
"No, I'm trying to replace one full-time, very experienced waitress who expected a certain salary with a part-time one who doesn't mind being paid what I can afford until things balance out," P'draig explains. It's a lot of sweat. Pretty impressive. If one isn't thoroughly grossed out by sweaty dude. Of course he's also on his way to drying out at least by now. "Oh! Sorry, got mixed up," Paddy claims, nods. "Hold then?" he queries and then he grins. "T'mic, actually. Who thinks that the wind picking up a little equates to 'freezing'."
Evaly isn't exactly turned on by sweaty dude (big surprise), but she doesn't chase him away with a broom or anything. "Well, if things don't start to look up for me soon and if you haven't already filled the opening by then - " They both sound like big Ifs. " - I'll keep the offer in mind? I have a feeling that it's not what either of us are looking for, though. I need more money than it sounds like you're offering and you probably need a waitress that doesn't say it like it's a dirty word." She does, too. Say it like it's a dirty word. Even dirtier than, "You moved here for a man?" Confusing.
"Probably," P'draig agrees about the waitressing gig. "It's pretty unforgiving work unless you /like/ being on your feet and talking to customers. The up sides are that it's cooler down by the restaurant and free meals are included. Plus, if you like Bailey, you'd be working with her and with Mic who usually stays dressed when he's working," the brownrider points out. A shake of his head follows though at her re-working of his reasons for moving. "I moved here for /T'mic/," he re-emphasizes his weyrmate's name. "I left behind over ten turns as weyrlingmaster and one /sweet/ weyr to come here. Would take a lot more than just 'a man' or 'a woman' to get me to do that."
Evaly brightly, "I like Bailey." Less brightly, "Just not that much." Humor sparks at the /usually/ in the comment about T'mic and his clothes, the smile fleeting since she goes on to collect the wineskin and, since it belongs to her, drinks from it without worrying about what her mouth touches. His reasons are - "It's really not my business, and I don't mean to sound like I'm judging you for it. It's just... Different strokes for different folks, as the saying goes." She drinks to that, an extra sip to chase the first, longer drink.
"I hear you," P'draig says agreaably, apparently difficult to fuss up. "Didn't really think you were, just explaining where I was coming from on that one. I stay for him and stay because it's also been good for my kids, especially my daughter. Palia's really taken to island life." A little nod about different strokes. "And now I'm invested in more than one way, in spite of the damn rain and the damn heat."
Evaly mentioned she's from the Hold, right? "How do you have kids?" She takes a breath like she might have some idea on the matter, mouth open, then closes her mouth again without uttering a word, forefinger to her lower lip for a thoughtful stroke. No, she hasn't quite figured it out on her own. "Not in the sense of 'the birds and the bees.'" She's old enough to have that part clear, regardless of the nature of her upbringing. "More in the sense of... the birds without the bees, if you will."
That question and her body language draw a slow smile from P'draig, eyes crinkling up at the corners. He waits her out, until she's done and gone all the way to 'bees'. Then he leans forward a little, elbows propped up on his knees, hands laced together and note confidentially: "I'm not gay." Let's that sink in for a few seconds. "And all of my kids are the result of lost flights. Jekzith chases at a minimum, once a week, sometimes more."
He's not gay? "I told you that I saw T'mic naked, didn't I? As in, I've seen the whole... package, if you will?" That's pertinent, because it leads into Evaly pointing out, "Because - yeah, you are." That fact that all of P'draig's kids are flightspawn in one way or another really just solidifies the very black-and-white, gay-and-straight thing and has her tapping her temple, knowingly, instead of the confused poking at her lip. "I suppose that makes sense, then."
Laughter follows. "No, I'm not. I'm bi," P'draig elaborates, without making any remarks about Mic's ... package. "Mic is the first guy I was ever with voluntarily. We've been together for five turns." Which might actually cause more puzzlement. Paddy's got that indeterminate look of the mid-thirty-something and seeing as he's in good shape, his age might be hard to place, but there's no escaping the fact that he can't possibly have been young when he and T'mic hooked up. "I was weyrmated before, at Fort, to a woman for a long time. And if you've met Mic, you know just how loose he is, probably enough to understand that being his weyrmate doesn't mean monogamy. He's got six kids, I have four." A one shouldered-shrug follows.
Slightly slack-jawed now, as she is through most of those words, Evaly waits five or six seconds after everything P'draig says before rouses herself to respond in any way. Then, it's to report, "You lost me." Probably somewhere back around 'no, I'm not,' never mind everything that followed it. "But don't worry about it. Suffice it to say, you've gotten comfortable here, and now you have a business here, so I can respect staying here. Though I might still harbor some bitterness about uprooting my life to come to this soggy island for some man, personally."
"It's okay, stay around the Weyr long enough and it might make sense eventually," P'draig says kindly. "Long story short, I like both men and women and have a preference for women, but T'mic has my heart," the brownrider sums it up with a tap of fingers to his chest above said organ. "And I'm pretty comfortable here, yeah. Not being weyrlingmaster again is going to take a little getting used to though." He grins about bitterness, shakes his head. "It was better than listening to him gripe about the cold," he quips with a wink. Kidding aroudn.
Evaly's not really getting any less confused, only deducing, "I'll have to trust that it's a very long story." And 'it's getting late' is what would probably follow that if she actually bothered to say it, but she leaves the implication in the fact that she starts unraveling from the grass about then, giving her backside - soaked with dew, not in a sexy-damp way but in a grass-stain way - a frown. "Have I said 'soggy' enough tonight, do you think? I better go in."
"It is and probably not all that interesting," P'draig claims and waits a second before pushing to his feet with relative smoothness. "A number of times. Good luck getting dry, I'm going to go get more wet and then head home. It was nice talking to you Evaly. I'll see you around."
Not all that interesting? "I wouldn't go that far. It may be quite interesting. I'm just..." Evaly collects her wineskin, her glowbasket, random detritus, and straightens up one last time with a quick, apologetic smile. "...not that sober. It was nice to meet you too, Paddy." Tucking everything into one arm, she offers the other hand for shaking now, belatedly, trusting that the fact that it's clammy from the cold, damp grass won't be too big a problem for P'draig. He has kids, after all; grosser things are bound to have crossed his path.
That offered hand is taken, shaken firmly but not ungently. "You okay to get home?" P'draig inquires solicitously as she informs him of her relative insobriety. The clamminess of her palm does not, in fact, seem to faze him at all, though that handclasp doesn't linger either.
Evaly's nod is confident, actually confident, not drunk-and-stupid confident. "I'm fine. Thank you for asking, though." Indeed, on her feet, even managing all that stuff, she does seem to be pretty stable. The, "Sorry," is because she takes back her hand and realizes she should have wiped it on her pants first. Whoops. Shaking it off, she turns down the path, puzzling through gay-no-bi along the way. "Strange, strange, strange," trails back along her way.
"Okay, walk safe," is P"draig's parting and he gives a wave of his hand to disclaim that apology. "No worries. Good night." He turns to head on towards the pool and his delayed bath, though he does look over his shoulder as that chorus of stranges floats back behind Evaly which means that briefly there might be laughter and words echoing together.
IC Date: 11/22/22
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.
Life, it seems, goes on. The Hatching is over and the Impressed are off in Weyrling Land and the others are... Well, Evaly, anyway, is making good use of the newfound downtime. She's parked in the grass, which is now growing damp with the evening getting later and later, looking like someone who - a few hours ago - had a pretty good setup: a glowbasket, a wineskin, some supper appropriated from the caverns. Now, she looks more wilted, laying on her stomach with her cheek on the heel of her hand, peering at what looks like a smudged, cheap map of the islands, hard enough to read in good light, nigh impossible in this crappy one-glow job of hers.
Wilted would probably describe P'draig pretty well too. The rider's got a towel slung over his shoulder and the air of someone who's dog-tired. But. Girl. Glow basket. "Hey there," he offers over. "Tough day?" Paddy inquires further, pausing in his path toward the pool. His hair is damp, but not by the look of it from swimming or getting clean, but rather from the bottom outward: sweaty, hair spiking a little here and there instead of curling and waving.
More awkward than fetching, Evaly lifts her chin higher, weight braced on the hand beneath her ribs so she can look over her shoulder at whoever's interrupting her long lull here. It's late enough that she probably thought she was pretty well alone for the rest of the night. "I could ask you the same thing," she points out once she's had time to digest the state of P'draig. "But, first, I think I should ask if we're acquainted? Or..." She shoots a look to the wineskin on the grass, sagging in the dew. Or... has she had more than she thinks she has?
"No, we're not, though I saw you on the sands," P'draig notes and sweeps a hand through his hair makes a face. "And it was. I run the Beach House, the restaurant on the beach?" brows lift questioningly: does she know it? "Busy night," the brownrider claims, walking over so she doesn't have to twist so and hunkers down even, though he doesn't sit without invitation.
The invitation can be assumed by the wave to the grass, plenty of it to go around, and she's using only a small section, before Evaly resumes her earlier posture, cheek to palm. "Paddy?" she deduces promptly, answering his implied question afterward-- "Bailey works for you. I've seen your weyrmate naked." The matter-of-fact tone at least illuminates the fact that she doesn't think this is a very big deal, probably a fair few people can say the same.
"Yeah that's right," P'draig confirms and lets his bottom hit the ground, legs folding up beneath him. His towel is draped across his lap, the hand that didn't sweep through his hair held out. "P'draig if you want to be more formal. Brown Jekzith's. And I am utterly unsurprised about Mic," he says candidly, grinning with a note of fondness in his voice. "I'm afraid neither Bailey nor T'mic have mentioned you though."
Evaly repeats, "P'draig," like she's not sure whether it's quite as suiting as Paddy was, surveying him with more light to compare and contrast the two forms of address. No telling where she lands, since she doesn't employ either name after that. "Which, if you think about it, speaks volumes about T'mic. Not quite so much about Bailey. I'm Evaly. And I'd offer a handshake, but it would be awkward." Because of the way she's presently propped. "I had oysters in your restaurant once."
"With Mic ... yeah, he's bad at remembering names so I'd lay odds on 'I met this gloriously hot blonde today' was probably about you if this was several weeks ago," Paddy remarks cheerily enough. His hand drops as she disclaimers shaking and he nods. "Still have them on the menu. Though I'm changing things over for fall, seasonal eats and all that."
"That's flattering," says Evaly, though she doesn't sound especially flattered. Probably because-- "Though 'gloriously hot blonde' might be a little like 'fish in a barrel' around here. Still." Folding her map into fourths with one hand, then pushing up from the way she was to a less utterly lazy seat similar to P'draig's, she stretches on the way up. Probably been there a while. "There are seasons at Ista?" Joke.
"Good point," P'draig acknowledges, grin a quick flash. "Though it is meant as a compliment where T'mic's concerned. He's ... sincere and means well even when his advances aren't always welcome." Beat. "Nice to meet you Evaly." His chin nods towards the map she's folding up. "Learning the local geography?" That's followed by a laugh though as his hands rest lightly atop knees. "Hot and less hot?" he offers up as a joking response.
Evaly, flipping her fingers forward and backward in a brushing motion, "Oh, there weren't any advances. I asked him not to hit on me, and he didn't. Everyone should be so accommodating." Take it as a warning? A suggestion? Certainly, it's not quite casual enough to not have been mentioned without purpose. "No. I'm keeping track of where I've already been. We can't all become waitresses when we run out of money, unless you really need that much staff." Reaching for the wine, which has managed to stay pretty cool in the grass and all, she plops it down in between them in a 'help yourself' way, adding, "The season where your sweat might dry on its own and the season where you better have a cold drink before you expire?"
"Yeah, if you actually tell him no, he's pretty good about that," P'draig agrees. "The problem is /not/ telling him no flat out," the brownrider notes. "Of course if I'd realized that and given him a flat no, we probably wouldn't be together now," he muses then gives a shake of his head, re-focuses. "Actually, I need cheap staff, if you're looking for work. I can't afford to pay all that much right now though, but my other waitress has decided the pastures are greener elsewhere, so I guess it depends on how desperate you are?" The wineskin, offered is acknowledged with a nod and the brownrider picks it up, flips open the top and tilts his head back to have a mouthful, mindful not to actually touch the mouthpiece with his lips. "Exactly," he agrees after he's swallowed and settled the skin between them again. "I'm not from Ista originally and I'm still not used to the subtle distinction between the so-called 'dry' season and the wet.
Evaly, though amused enough to repeat, "Cheap staff," doesn't seem particularly engaged by the offer. In fact, she goes on to add, "Desperate? I may well be. But a waitress?" She shakes her head, looking sagely confident about it. Apparently, desperation has not yet reached the point of drinking really crappy wine, since hers is moderately good. But, then, how hard is it for a gloriously hot blonde (tm) to acquire a wineskin, if you think about it. "I have a theory that it has to do not with the quantity but the size of the raindrops. In the dry season, they're fairly survivable. In the wet season, they're the ones that feel like you're getting pelted by marbles." She casts a dubious look upward, seeing stars instead of clouds, thankfully. "Me, too." From Ista.
"Mm. Bailey's energetic and outgoing, so it suits her pretty well. T'mic plays host part of the time and my daughter Palia pretty regularly. She charms the customers in through the door." Again with the fond amusement. "This isn't half bad," he says of the wine. "I've got some good ones down at the restaurant, to go with the food." He listens to her theory, mouth quirking into a charmed expression. "I think I can buy into that. The rain in summer does seem ... vicious almost. Coming to get you. Drown you where you stand." Breath out. "I was born at High Reaches, impressed at Fort, how about you?"
Dubiously, "And you're trying to hire still another waitress? Business is really so good?" Evaly squints at P'draig, specifically at P'draig's sweat (as much as she can in the dimness), and has to finish with an impressed look. "Admittedly, they were pretty good oysters." Like that's the reason everyone goes there. Obviously. "No, I mean. I am from Ista. Just not here," with a point to the grass right beneath her, like this particular patch of earth specifically. "The Weyr. What in the world would possess someone to move to this water-logged island if they didn't have to?" It would take a local to see 'water-logged' instead of 'paradisical.'
"No, I'm trying to replace one full-time, very experienced waitress who expected a certain salary with a part-time one who doesn't mind being paid what I can afford until things balance out," P'draig explains. It's a lot of sweat. Pretty impressive. If one isn't thoroughly grossed out by sweaty dude. Of course he's also on his way to drying out at least by now. "Oh! Sorry, got mixed up," Paddy claims, nods. "Hold then?" he queries and then he grins. "T'mic, actually. Who thinks that the wind picking up a little equates to 'freezing'."
Evaly isn't exactly turned on by sweaty dude (big surprise), but she doesn't chase him away with a broom or anything. "Well, if things don't start to look up for me soon and if you haven't already filled the opening by then - " They both sound like big Ifs. " - I'll keep the offer in mind? I have a feeling that it's not what either of us are looking for, though. I need more money than it sounds like you're offering and you probably need a waitress that doesn't say it like it's a dirty word." She does, too. Say it like it's a dirty word. Even dirtier than, "You moved here for a man?" Confusing.
"Probably," P'draig agrees about the waitressing gig. "It's pretty unforgiving work unless you /like/ being on your feet and talking to customers. The up sides are that it's cooler down by the restaurant and free meals are included. Plus, if you like Bailey, you'd be working with her and with Mic who usually stays dressed when he's working," the brownrider points out. A shake of his head follows though at her re-working of his reasons for moving. "I moved here for /T'mic/," he re-emphasizes his weyrmate's name. "I left behind over ten turns as weyrlingmaster and one /sweet/ weyr to come here. Would take a lot more than just 'a man' or 'a woman' to get me to do that."
Evaly brightly, "I like Bailey." Less brightly, "Just not that much." Humor sparks at the /usually/ in the comment about T'mic and his clothes, the smile fleeting since she goes on to collect the wineskin and, since it belongs to her, drinks from it without worrying about what her mouth touches. His reasons are - "It's really not my business, and I don't mean to sound like I'm judging you for it. It's just... Different strokes for different folks, as the saying goes." She drinks to that, an extra sip to chase the first, longer drink.
"I hear you," P'draig says agreaably, apparently difficult to fuss up. "Didn't really think you were, just explaining where I was coming from on that one. I stay for him and stay because it's also been good for my kids, especially my daughter. Palia's really taken to island life." A little nod about different strokes. "And now I'm invested in more than one way, in spite of the damn rain and the damn heat."
Evaly mentioned she's from the Hold, right? "How do you have kids?" She takes a breath like she might have some idea on the matter, mouth open, then closes her mouth again without uttering a word, forefinger to her lower lip for a thoughtful stroke. No, she hasn't quite figured it out on her own. "Not in the sense of 'the birds and the bees.'" She's old enough to have that part clear, regardless of the nature of her upbringing. "More in the sense of... the birds without the bees, if you will."
That question and her body language draw a slow smile from P'draig, eyes crinkling up at the corners. He waits her out, until she's done and gone all the way to 'bees'. Then he leans forward a little, elbows propped up on his knees, hands laced together and note confidentially: "I'm not gay." Let's that sink in for a few seconds. "And all of my kids are the result of lost flights. Jekzith chases at a minimum, once a week, sometimes more."
He's not gay? "I told you that I saw T'mic naked, didn't I? As in, I've seen the whole... package, if you will?" That's pertinent, because it leads into Evaly pointing out, "Because - yeah, you are." That fact that all of P'draig's kids are flightspawn in one way or another really just solidifies the very black-and-white, gay-and-straight thing and has her tapping her temple, knowingly, instead of the confused poking at her lip. "I suppose that makes sense, then."
Laughter follows. "No, I'm not. I'm bi," P'draig elaborates, without making any remarks about Mic's ... package. "Mic is the first guy I was ever with voluntarily. We've been together for five turns." Which might actually cause more puzzlement. Paddy's got that indeterminate look of the mid-thirty-something and seeing as he's in good shape, his age might be hard to place, but there's no escaping the fact that he can't possibly have been young when he and T'mic hooked up. "I was weyrmated before, at Fort, to a woman for a long time. And if you've met Mic, you know just how loose he is, probably enough to understand that being his weyrmate doesn't mean monogamy. He's got six kids, I have four." A one shouldered-shrug follows.
Slightly slack-jawed now, as she is through most of those words, Evaly waits five or six seconds after everything P'draig says before rouses herself to respond in any way. Then, it's to report, "You lost me." Probably somewhere back around 'no, I'm not,' never mind everything that followed it. "But don't worry about it. Suffice it to say, you've gotten comfortable here, and now you have a business here, so I can respect staying here. Though I might still harbor some bitterness about uprooting my life to come to this soggy island for some man, personally."
"It's okay, stay around the Weyr long enough and it might make sense eventually," P'draig says kindly. "Long story short, I like both men and women and have a preference for women, but T'mic has my heart," the brownrider sums it up with a tap of fingers to his chest above said organ. "And I'm pretty comfortable here, yeah. Not being weyrlingmaster again is going to take a little getting used to though." He grins about bitterness, shakes his head. "It was better than listening to him gripe about the cold," he quips with a wink. Kidding aroudn.
Evaly's not really getting any less confused, only deducing, "I'll have to trust that it's a very long story." And 'it's getting late' is what would probably follow that if she actually bothered to say it, but she leaves the implication in the fact that she starts unraveling from the grass about then, giving her backside - soaked with dew, not in a sexy-damp way but in a grass-stain way - a frown. "Have I said 'soggy' enough tonight, do you think? I better go in."
"It is and probably not all that interesting," P'draig claims and waits a second before pushing to his feet with relative smoothness. "A number of times. Good luck getting dry, I'm going to go get more wet and then head home. It was nice talking to you Evaly. I'll see you around."
Not all that interesting? "I wouldn't go that far. It may be quite interesting. I'm just..." Evaly collects her wineskin, her glowbasket, random detritus, and straightens up one last time with a quick, apologetic smile. "...not that sober. It was nice to meet you too, Paddy." Tucking everything into one arm, she offers the other hand for shaking now, belatedly, trusting that the fact that it's clammy from the cold, damp grass won't be too big a problem for P'draig. He has kids, after all; grosser things are bound to have crossed his path.
That offered hand is taken, shaken firmly but not ungently. "You okay to get home?" P'draig inquires solicitously as she informs him of her relative insobriety. The clamminess of her palm does not, in fact, seem to faze him at all, though that handclasp doesn't linger either.
Evaly's nod is confident, actually confident, not drunk-and-stupid confident. "I'm fine. Thank you for asking, though." Indeed, on her feet, even managing all that stuff, she does seem to be pretty stable. The, "Sorry," is because she takes back her hand and realizes she should have wiped it on her pants first. Whoops. Shaking it off, she turns down the path, puzzling through gay-no-bi along the way. "Strange, strange, strange," trails back along her way.
"Okay, walk safe," is P"draig's parting and he gives a wave of his hand to disclaim that apology. "No worries. Good night." He turns to head on towards the pool and his delayed bath, though he does look over his shoulder as that chorus of stranges floats back behind Evaly which means that briefly there might be laughter and words echoing together.