[M'try] Drawing in the Solarium.
RL Date: 7/25/10
IC Date: 4/18/23
Solarium, Fort Weyr
Up at the top of the stairs, the light grows stronger where a landing opens up and leads the way into a dusty, but spacious room with smooth, walls. Nearly perfectly round, the space seems to have held a certain grandeur once, though the hangings that decorate the walls have long gone to tatters and dust and the thick fur on the floor is crawling with ... best not to say. The main attraction though lies up above, or would if it were cleaned off and opened up: a glass roof made of multiple panes of colored glass stretches upward, most covered with some kind of paneling, one broken and seeping dirt and debris into the room. It's a solarium and once repaired could be a lovely space to sit and socialize.
This is not the prettiest location at the moment, the dust still dancing in the bluish light of a few glowbaskets ranged around the floor of the room. The floor, of course, because there's no furniture here-- and that's why M'try is sitting on the floor in between two of those glowbaskets, his feet flat on the floor, his knees bent as a brace for the sketchbook there. It's pretty, of course, which is probably why he's here, his pencil held in between his first and second finger, braced between two knuckles, wobbling back and forth while he looks up at those panes overhead.
The sound of bootheels striking rock should warn M'try ahead of time that he's about to be not-alone. They precede Isandre into the room by a good minute or two - she's taking it slow, the small glow-basket in her hand leading the way. As she steps up to the top of the stairs, the healer looks around, missing the brownrider for a moment - though her second sweep of the room catches sight of him, and she winces. Almost, she backs away before being seen - but cowardice is not part of her nature, and instead she steps in a bit further. "G'eve, M'try."
Even if she had just turned tail-- it's not like M'try wasn't braced for her entrance, the footfalls giving away her arrival, indeed. The wobbling pauses long enough for him to take stock of who's actually coming into the room, teeter teeter teeter pause, and it resumes again promptly when green eyes light on the Healer. "Hello, Isandre," he chimes promptly, like it's perfectly natural for them to come across each other here, of all places. "It's got potential, don't you think?" His eyes tilt up, up and traipse a look around the ceiling.
Given some of the odd places they've happened across each other, perhaps it is. "Hmm." Taking a moment to look before Isandre answers, the healer steps further into the room, tucking her hands in her pockets as she tilts her chin back, surveying the room. "I think, cleaned up, this place could be amazin'," she murmurs, taking careful note of the glass ceiling, carefully sidestepping around the remains of the fur, even as she shudders lightly. "Be a great place t' come and read - day or night, I'm thinkin'." Her eyes flicker to him, smirk. "Or draw."
"Nothing has bitten me yet," M'try assures for whatever may or may not be crawling the floor, though part of that may be that he's got the room pretty well-lit, considering evening is pretty well settled now. "It's not at all tidy, I admit, but you're welcome to sit if you'd like. Contrary to what you may have heard or ascertained by now--" He turns the page on his lap to show he's drawing nothing more than the ceiling, the focal point being the broken pane leaking in its debris, the imagining of a little rubble falling through that hole.
"Heard?" While Isandre may have her own suspicions about his drawing activities, she's rarely one to make assumptions without fact to back them up. Pacing to his side, she crouches beside him, one hand on her knee to balance her as she peers at the sheet. "Not bad," she murmurs. "Ye've a talent for it. Think they'll make this place workable again? Be interestin' t' see what happens if they do clear out this side o' the Weyr." She's not quite brave enough to actually sit on the floor - and don't mention the smudge of dirt running over her cheek and nose unless you're looking for a show.
M'try widens his eyes at her initial murmur, his chin dropped for a moment as if so very surprised. "Not bad, she says. Not bad." He sniffs theatrically, managing to continue a feigned sulk even when she tacks on the bit about having talent; yes, he's aware, thank you. "I don't see why they wouldn't," he continues, losing the act to look again around the room, though his attention does have a tendency to go back to the dirt-smudge Isandre's sporting, not /saying/ anything, but if she's perceptive enough... "There seem to be some rather promising locations unearthed by the mudslide. At the very least, this would be a nice change to the stuffiness of the commons, don't you think?"
"I have dirt on my face, don't I?" His attention brings hers to it, and Isandre grits her teeth, reaching up to wipe at her nose and cheek with the heel of her hand - smearing it at best. "I have t' wonder when I developed this odd masochistic streak o' mine, t' tempt the fates by goin' where th' dirt lives, instead of just waitin' for it t' come visit me." Sighing, she shifts her crouch - then gives up and plants her rump on the ground, stretching her legs out before her. "And yes," she adds, expression sliding back to pleasant as he draws her attention from dirt and grime to the potential around them. "Yes. Can ye imagine it - sitting in here, warm and dry, while th' rain streams over the glass?"
"Yes," M'try answers honestly, outlining the corresponding place on his own face so Isandre will have an idea where she ought to wipe. She smears it, he ducks his head, letting his hair fall forward enough that he won't be so tempted to keep looking at the smudge. "I was envisioning it more with sunshine than rain, truly. Some patio-esque furniture, the quiet thrum of conversation, sunlight brightening the glass, perhaps a few fern-like plants to fill the recesses..."
"Mmm. Or moonlight," Isandre murmurs, tilting her head up to stare at it - lifting her hand to brush again at the dirt, managing to take some of it off this time. "Starlight. Low glows ringin' the room, sitting on tables for people who need the light, the moon and stars shinin' through th' glass, shadin' everything silver - hah. Listen t' me." Shaking her head, she drops her gaze again, studying the ground before her as she draws up her knees, looping her arms around them. "I'm sure no matter th' time o' day or weather, this'll be a lovely place t' be." Resting her chin on her knees, she shrugs her shoulders. "Wonder what else they'll find with th' diggin' here."
M'try's, "I was," is a quiet answer to her 'listen to me' remark, put without a look up from the working of his pencil across the paper, picking up the drawing once again. Her comment about its potential loveliness has him nodding distractedly, contributing, "In the meantime, I suppose it will be a lovely testament to the usefulness of brooms and those who wield them. Though I am curious as to how someone will get up there to fix that pane." That latter musing of Isandre's has him laughing mildly to comment, "Thus far, there has been a bathing cavern, I heard a rumor about a broom closet, and a... whatever this place is intended to be. I can find no commonality between them, so your guess is as good as mine."
"I meant listen t' me prattle on," Isandre murmurs quietly, before hazarding in a stronger voice, "Mayhap this was meant t' be the Weyrleaders' rooms? Not th' bedchamber, but mayhap like a... a sitting room, like th' ladies in th' Holds have, or so I've heard." Her shoulders shrug, as she absently runs a finger over the toe of her boot, still gazing at the ground. "Hopefully they'll finish diggin' this place out and putting it to rights. Seems a shame for it t' have been lost for so long, but a boon t' us to have found it again." Falling silent, she slides a sidelong glance at him, watching his pencil run over the paper, more fascinated by his drawing than she cares to admit.
"I would have called it 'musing rather prettily' rather than prattling." M'try taps the flat end of the pencil against the top of the page a few times, following a look around the room as if trying to envision it put to the uses she's listed. "Indeed, a boon to have found it again, and perhaps even more remarkable because it's been lost for so long. I highly doubt that we would be sitting here-- certainly not right here," on the floor, "if we had known about this place all along. It's generally not a spectator sport." That last gets tacked on when his hand returns to the page, now spraying a fine line of dust from the rubble falling through his rendering of the gap in the glass.
The soft "Sorry," is clearly in response to his last comment - Isandre, assuming he means his drawing, instead allows her gaze to slide away, back to the floor. Finally, she sighs again and lowers her arms, pushing herself to her feet. "Well," she says, with rather false brightness, "I'll leave ye t' yer drawing then - I'm sure, if nothin' else, such things will be of help when it comes time t' restore this room th' way it ought t' be. And as I've little useful t' add - bein' of the workman sort, rather than th' visionary," and here her lips twitch slightly, "I'd best be back t' my more mundane chores." Dusting her hands over thighs and posterior, she turns away with a backwards wave. "G'eve t'ye, M'try."
M'try takes a breath, starts to say something, aborts that attempt with a long exhale that happens to coincide with the time that Isandre stands. She's already up and leaving, and he's still sitting in the same place, offering to her backwards wave, "That wasn't meant to chase you away, Isandre. Just that people don't generally find the actual drawing parts interesting enough to sit and watch." He seems, if anything, puzzled by the abrupt ending of the mellow interlude, and he sits peering at the spot where she'd been sitting, now clear of the dust that's being carried away on the Healer's butt.
Pausing midstep, Isandre tilts back her head, as if giving the ceiling another careful look. "I find any kind o' skill interesting - even more so when it's one I don't share. I didna mean t' make ye uncomfortable." Turning back, hands tucked in her pockets now that the worst of the dust has been returned to the ground, she scuffs idly at the floor, studying the puff that rises from the motion. "I like t' watch things," she explains slowly, clearly picking her words with care. "People. Places. I could, t' be quite honest with ye, sit there and watch ye draw for hours. But not," she adds, frowning, "if it's discomforting for ye."
"It's not," discomforting for him. "Come and sit down again, if you would rather. It won't deter my business, I only meant that it's a little odd as a way to pass the time on your end. Or we could do something a little more engaging?" M'try even starts to brace himself to find his feet, having to tuck his pencil behind his hear so that his hands are free to help push up. "See where else those stairs lead? If they do, in fact, open onto a broom closet? Which likely would not be so picturesque, true, but an adventure, I think." He glances up several times through this, questioning her interest in a change of scenery?
"Odd. That's me," Isandre replies, voice touched with an odd sort of bittersweet amusement. She shrugs again, sloughing that momentary bout of bad temper, though her smile is still less than pristine, even as she offers it to him. "For me, I find it odd those people who always have to... do something. Can't just sit and appreciate a sunrise, or sunset, or a master at work. Let your eyes watch, yer mind wander..." She trails off, shaking her head. "If ye'd like t' explore more, I'd be happy t' join ye - I'm rather enjoyin' watching this place unfold." Though she seems to have more to say, instead she simply shakes her head, scuffing at the ground again.
M'try, to her comment about oddness, has to add, "Ah. In that case, hello, Pot. You may call me Kettle. It seems you're looking rather black today. I'd offer my hand, but." He shows his palm to be a dusty mess at the moment, mostly from the effort of pushing himself to his feet. "'Like' may be going a bit too far in terms of my will to explore, but I think I have spent more than my fair share of time on this particular floor, so perhaps a bit of walking around, especially up and down steps, will do me some good. And it seems better to do so with company. In case I fall down and die. Someone can report how it happened."
"I'll live without," Isandre replies, glancing at his hand - though at least this time she doesn't shudder. Instead, she takes a step backwards, giving him plenty of room to move before her and take the lead. "I don't mind explorin'," she admits, "even with all th' dust and stuff. I'm learnin' t' save the breakdown until I'm in th' hot springs, where it's convienent for me t' strip down and jump in th' water." Shaking her head, she gestures towards the door. "Don' worry, if ye fall down an' die, I'll be sure they give ye a proper drop b'tween."
"Oh, we could do that," M'try is quick to quip, yes, taking the lead, no, not in a big old hurry. While he ought to go slinking off in utter embarrassment at the notion of the hot springs and stripping down and all-- "This is why it would be nice if those other bathing caverns were up and running. It would at least be less of a hike, with far less chance that I would have time to fall down and kill myself. But thank you, that's very heartening." Her comment about *between*, met with a quick grin over his shoulder on his way out.
Rolling her eyes, Isandre stuffs her hands in her pockets and follows after. "Yes," she remarks, to the comment about bathing caverns. "Having options on where t' bathe would be divine. Sometimes a girl likes a change of scene, and I'm not blessed with a tub in my room like some bronzeriders I could name." Snickering softly, she shakes her head. "Ye ain't gonna kill yerself, M'try, 'les ye go and break yer neck. Fortunately, ye have a big, bad healer here t' protect yer soft shell from all manner of deadly injuries."
M'try answers with a big old sad sigh, "Neither do I. Nor a mural. My weyr is very high up and a bit strange-looking. Not that I'm jealous." In a way that screams 'yes I am!!' Out on those steps, perilous, he takes the first few a little gingerly, adding a light, "Mind the stairs," back to the Healer, clearly debating whether or not it's worse to offer a hand at this point or to not. It is, after all, a rather dirty and dusty hand. Ultimately, he kind of holds it out in a take-or-not way, up and behind to help Isandre's way down if she needs it. "Again, very heartening. I feel so... secure... now."
"If nothin' else, I kin throw myself afore ye if ye trip," Isandre muses, taking the offered hand in an absent manner that indicates she's clearly not paying attention to its condition at the moment - though that may be a purposeful blindness. "I'm soft enough t' take all manner o' blows, and cushion ye asides." Snickering softly, she follows after him, feeling her way carefully down the steps. "I've nothing in my room of much interest," she admits. "But that's t' be expected, as I'm the transatory sort of resident."
With a laugh, M'try points out, "I would feel obligated to-- well, no. I would at least make a token effort to keep you from throwing yourself down." His hand tightens around Isandre's briefly, abruptly loosens, perhaps an illustration of a /token/ effort. "Though you do look like a softer place to land than the steps. Or worse." He peers over the edge of those steps, way down the edge to get a glimpse of the bowl way so far down. "Please tell me you've settled in and made yourself comfortable, Isandre? Added personal touches of some sort?"
Chuckling, Isandre shakes her head at M'try. "Well, ye make your token effort, and while you're doing that, I'll be keepin' ye from breakin' open that thin skull of yourn, deal?" Snorting softly, she glances down the steps as well, then squeezes her own hand about his fingers, comfortingly. "Ye can do it," she teases. "I have faith in ye." A beat, then, "Yes. I've made it quite th' comfortable little hideaway. Got some wall hangings, books, a few dustcatchers - it's cozy."
"No jokes about me being hard-headed? I'm disappointed." The trip down the steps does, of course, end without anyone falling down and killing themselves, though M'try does lack the follow-through to actually attend any bathing activities afterward. Instead, at the bottom of the steps, he will have to make his farewell, jokingly on the grounds that he refuses to bathe when there's even the remotest possibility that anyone else might be present.
IC Date: 4/18/23
Solarium, Fort Weyr
Up at the top of the stairs, the light grows stronger where a landing opens up and leads the way into a dusty, but spacious room with smooth, walls. Nearly perfectly round, the space seems to have held a certain grandeur once, though the hangings that decorate the walls have long gone to tatters and dust and the thick fur on the floor is crawling with ... best not to say. The main attraction though lies up above, or would if it were cleaned off and opened up: a glass roof made of multiple panes of colored glass stretches upward, most covered with some kind of paneling, one broken and seeping dirt and debris into the room. It's a solarium and once repaired could be a lovely space to sit and socialize.
This is not the prettiest location at the moment, the dust still dancing in the bluish light of a few glowbaskets ranged around the floor of the room. The floor, of course, because there's no furniture here-- and that's why M'try is sitting on the floor in between two of those glowbaskets, his feet flat on the floor, his knees bent as a brace for the sketchbook there. It's pretty, of course, which is probably why he's here, his pencil held in between his first and second finger, braced between two knuckles, wobbling back and forth while he looks up at those panes overhead.
The sound of bootheels striking rock should warn M'try ahead of time that he's about to be not-alone. They precede Isandre into the room by a good minute or two - she's taking it slow, the small glow-basket in her hand leading the way. As she steps up to the top of the stairs, the healer looks around, missing the brownrider for a moment - though her second sweep of the room catches sight of him, and she winces. Almost, she backs away before being seen - but cowardice is not part of her nature, and instead she steps in a bit further. "G'eve, M'try."
Even if she had just turned tail-- it's not like M'try wasn't braced for her entrance, the footfalls giving away her arrival, indeed. The wobbling pauses long enough for him to take stock of who's actually coming into the room, teeter teeter teeter pause, and it resumes again promptly when green eyes light on the Healer. "Hello, Isandre," he chimes promptly, like it's perfectly natural for them to come across each other here, of all places. "It's got potential, don't you think?" His eyes tilt up, up and traipse a look around the ceiling.
Given some of the odd places they've happened across each other, perhaps it is. "Hmm." Taking a moment to look before Isandre answers, the healer steps further into the room, tucking her hands in her pockets as she tilts her chin back, surveying the room. "I think, cleaned up, this place could be amazin'," she murmurs, taking careful note of the glass ceiling, carefully sidestepping around the remains of the fur, even as she shudders lightly. "Be a great place t' come and read - day or night, I'm thinkin'." Her eyes flicker to him, smirk. "Or draw."
"Nothing has bitten me yet," M'try assures for whatever may or may not be crawling the floor, though part of that may be that he's got the room pretty well-lit, considering evening is pretty well settled now. "It's not at all tidy, I admit, but you're welcome to sit if you'd like. Contrary to what you may have heard or ascertained by now--" He turns the page on his lap to show he's drawing nothing more than the ceiling, the focal point being the broken pane leaking in its debris, the imagining of a little rubble falling through that hole.
"Heard?" While Isandre may have her own suspicions about his drawing activities, she's rarely one to make assumptions without fact to back them up. Pacing to his side, she crouches beside him, one hand on her knee to balance her as she peers at the sheet. "Not bad," she murmurs. "Ye've a talent for it. Think they'll make this place workable again? Be interestin' t' see what happens if they do clear out this side o' the Weyr." She's not quite brave enough to actually sit on the floor - and don't mention the smudge of dirt running over her cheek and nose unless you're looking for a show.
M'try widens his eyes at her initial murmur, his chin dropped for a moment as if so very surprised. "Not bad, she says. Not bad." He sniffs theatrically, managing to continue a feigned sulk even when she tacks on the bit about having talent; yes, he's aware, thank you. "I don't see why they wouldn't," he continues, losing the act to look again around the room, though his attention does have a tendency to go back to the dirt-smudge Isandre's sporting, not /saying/ anything, but if she's perceptive enough... "There seem to be some rather promising locations unearthed by the mudslide. At the very least, this would be a nice change to the stuffiness of the commons, don't you think?"
"I have dirt on my face, don't I?" His attention brings hers to it, and Isandre grits her teeth, reaching up to wipe at her nose and cheek with the heel of her hand - smearing it at best. "I have t' wonder when I developed this odd masochistic streak o' mine, t' tempt the fates by goin' where th' dirt lives, instead of just waitin' for it t' come visit me." Sighing, she shifts her crouch - then gives up and plants her rump on the ground, stretching her legs out before her. "And yes," she adds, expression sliding back to pleasant as he draws her attention from dirt and grime to the potential around them. "Yes. Can ye imagine it - sitting in here, warm and dry, while th' rain streams over the glass?"
"Yes," M'try answers honestly, outlining the corresponding place on his own face so Isandre will have an idea where she ought to wipe. She smears it, he ducks his head, letting his hair fall forward enough that he won't be so tempted to keep looking at the smudge. "I was envisioning it more with sunshine than rain, truly. Some patio-esque furniture, the quiet thrum of conversation, sunlight brightening the glass, perhaps a few fern-like plants to fill the recesses..."
"Mmm. Or moonlight," Isandre murmurs, tilting her head up to stare at it - lifting her hand to brush again at the dirt, managing to take some of it off this time. "Starlight. Low glows ringin' the room, sitting on tables for people who need the light, the moon and stars shinin' through th' glass, shadin' everything silver - hah. Listen t' me." Shaking her head, she drops her gaze again, studying the ground before her as she draws up her knees, looping her arms around them. "I'm sure no matter th' time o' day or weather, this'll be a lovely place t' be." Resting her chin on her knees, she shrugs her shoulders. "Wonder what else they'll find with th' diggin' here."
M'try's, "I was," is a quiet answer to her 'listen to me' remark, put without a look up from the working of his pencil across the paper, picking up the drawing once again. Her comment about its potential loveliness has him nodding distractedly, contributing, "In the meantime, I suppose it will be a lovely testament to the usefulness of brooms and those who wield them. Though I am curious as to how someone will get up there to fix that pane." That latter musing of Isandre's has him laughing mildly to comment, "Thus far, there has been a bathing cavern, I heard a rumor about a broom closet, and a... whatever this place is intended to be. I can find no commonality between them, so your guess is as good as mine."
"I meant listen t' me prattle on," Isandre murmurs quietly, before hazarding in a stronger voice, "Mayhap this was meant t' be the Weyrleaders' rooms? Not th' bedchamber, but mayhap like a... a sitting room, like th' ladies in th' Holds have, or so I've heard." Her shoulders shrug, as she absently runs a finger over the toe of her boot, still gazing at the ground. "Hopefully they'll finish diggin' this place out and putting it to rights. Seems a shame for it t' have been lost for so long, but a boon t' us to have found it again." Falling silent, she slides a sidelong glance at him, watching his pencil run over the paper, more fascinated by his drawing than she cares to admit.
"I would have called it 'musing rather prettily' rather than prattling." M'try taps the flat end of the pencil against the top of the page a few times, following a look around the room as if trying to envision it put to the uses she's listed. "Indeed, a boon to have found it again, and perhaps even more remarkable because it's been lost for so long. I highly doubt that we would be sitting here-- certainly not right here," on the floor, "if we had known about this place all along. It's generally not a spectator sport." That last gets tacked on when his hand returns to the page, now spraying a fine line of dust from the rubble falling through his rendering of the gap in the glass.
The soft "Sorry," is clearly in response to his last comment - Isandre, assuming he means his drawing, instead allows her gaze to slide away, back to the floor. Finally, she sighs again and lowers her arms, pushing herself to her feet. "Well," she says, with rather false brightness, "I'll leave ye t' yer drawing then - I'm sure, if nothin' else, such things will be of help when it comes time t' restore this room th' way it ought t' be. And as I've little useful t' add - bein' of the workman sort, rather than th' visionary," and here her lips twitch slightly, "I'd best be back t' my more mundane chores." Dusting her hands over thighs and posterior, she turns away with a backwards wave. "G'eve t'ye, M'try."
M'try takes a breath, starts to say something, aborts that attempt with a long exhale that happens to coincide with the time that Isandre stands. She's already up and leaving, and he's still sitting in the same place, offering to her backwards wave, "That wasn't meant to chase you away, Isandre. Just that people don't generally find the actual drawing parts interesting enough to sit and watch." He seems, if anything, puzzled by the abrupt ending of the mellow interlude, and he sits peering at the spot where she'd been sitting, now clear of the dust that's being carried away on the Healer's butt.
Pausing midstep, Isandre tilts back her head, as if giving the ceiling another careful look. "I find any kind o' skill interesting - even more so when it's one I don't share. I didna mean t' make ye uncomfortable." Turning back, hands tucked in her pockets now that the worst of the dust has been returned to the ground, she scuffs idly at the floor, studying the puff that rises from the motion. "I like t' watch things," she explains slowly, clearly picking her words with care. "People. Places. I could, t' be quite honest with ye, sit there and watch ye draw for hours. But not," she adds, frowning, "if it's discomforting for ye."
"It's not," discomforting for him. "Come and sit down again, if you would rather. It won't deter my business, I only meant that it's a little odd as a way to pass the time on your end. Or we could do something a little more engaging?" M'try even starts to brace himself to find his feet, having to tuck his pencil behind his hear so that his hands are free to help push up. "See where else those stairs lead? If they do, in fact, open onto a broom closet? Which likely would not be so picturesque, true, but an adventure, I think." He glances up several times through this, questioning her interest in a change of scenery?
"Odd. That's me," Isandre replies, voice touched with an odd sort of bittersweet amusement. She shrugs again, sloughing that momentary bout of bad temper, though her smile is still less than pristine, even as she offers it to him. "For me, I find it odd those people who always have to... do something. Can't just sit and appreciate a sunrise, or sunset, or a master at work. Let your eyes watch, yer mind wander..." She trails off, shaking her head. "If ye'd like t' explore more, I'd be happy t' join ye - I'm rather enjoyin' watching this place unfold." Though she seems to have more to say, instead she simply shakes her head, scuffing at the ground again.
M'try, to her comment about oddness, has to add, "Ah. In that case, hello, Pot. You may call me Kettle. It seems you're looking rather black today. I'd offer my hand, but." He shows his palm to be a dusty mess at the moment, mostly from the effort of pushing himself to his feet. "'Like' may be going a bit too far in terms of my will to explore, but I think I have spent more than my fair share of time on this particular floor, so perhaps a bit of walking around, especially up and down steps, will do me some good. And it seems better to do so with company. In case I fall down and die. Someone can report how it happened."
"I'll live without," Isandre replies, glancing at his hand - though at least this time she doesn't shudder. Instead, she takes a step backwards, giving him plenty of room to move before her and take the lead. "I don't mind explorin'," she admits, "even with all th' dust and stuff. I'm learnin' t' save the breakdown until I'm in th' hot springs, where it's convienent for me t' strip down and jump in th' water." Shaking her head, she gestures towards the door. "Don' worry, if ye fall down an' die, I'll be sure they give ye a proper drop b'tween."
"Oh, we could do that," M'try is quick to quip, yes, taking the lead, no, not in a big old hurry. While he ought to go slinking off in utter embarrassment at the notion of the hot springs and stripping down and all-- "This is why it would be nice if those other bathing caverns were up and running. It would at least be less of a hike, with far less chance that I would have time to fall down and kill myself. But thank you, that's very heartening." Her comment about *between*, met with a quick grin over his shoulder on his way out.
Rolling her eyes, Isandre stuffs her hands in her pockets and follows after. "Yes," she remarks, to the comment about bathing caverns. "Having options on where t' bathe would be divine. Sometimes a girl likes a change of scene, and I'm not blessed with a tub in my room like some bronzeriders I could name." Snickering softly, she shakes her head. "Ye ain't gonna kill yerself, M'try, 'les ye go and break yer neck. Fortunately, ye have a big, bad healer here t' protect yer soft shell from all manner of deadly injuries."
M'try answers with a big old sad sigh, "Neither do I. Nor a mural. My weyr is very high up and a bit strange-looking. Not that I'm jealous." In a way that screams 'yes I am!!' Out on those steps, perilous, he takes the first few a little gingerly, adding a light, "Mind the stairs," back to the Healer, clearly debating whether or not it's worse to offer a hand at this point or to not. It is, after all, a rather dirty and dusty hand. Ultimately, he kind of holds it out in a take-or-not way, up and behind to help Isandre's way down if she needs it. "Again, very heartening. I feel so... secure... now."
"If nothin' else, I kin throw myself afore ye if ye trip," Isandre muses, taking the offered hand in an absent manner that indicates she's clearly not paying attention to its condition at the moment - though that may be a purposeful blindness. "I'm soft enough t' take all manner o' blows, and cushion ye asides." Snickering softly, she follows after him, feeling her way carefully down the steps. "I've nothing in my room of much interest," she admits. "But that's t' be expected, as I'm the transatory sort of resident."
With a laugh, M'try points out, "I would feel obligated to-- well, no. I would at least make a token effort to keep you from throwing yourself down." His hand tightens around Isandre's briefly, abruptly loosens, perhaps an illustration of a /token/ effort. "Though you do look like a softer place to land than the steps. Or worse." He peers over the edge of those steps, way down the edge to get a glimpse of the bowl way so far down. "Please tell me you've settled in and made yourself comfortable, Isandre? Added personal touches of some sort?"
Chuckling, Isandre shakes her head at M'try. "Well, ye make your token effort, and while you're doing that, I'll be keepin' ye from breakin' open that thin skull of yourn, deal?" Snorting softly, she glances down the steps as well, then squeezes her own hand about his fingers, comfortingly. "Ye can do it," she teases. "I have faith in ye." A beat, then, "Yes. I've made it quite th' comfortable little hideaway. Got some wall hangings, books, a few dustcatchers - it's cozy."
"No jokes about me being hard-headed? I'm disappointed." The trip down the steps does, of course, end without anyone falling down and killing themselves, though M'try does lack the follow-through to actually attend any bathing activities afterward. Instead, at the bottom of the steps, he will have to make his farewell, jokingly on the grounds that he refuses to bathe when there's even the remotest possibility that anyone else might be present.